I am the small town lineman, and you'll find me out here on the line, searching ceaselessly to simply find a place I can call mine. Every corner of this country criss-crossed out with coloured lines, the city lies before me, another city sprawling out behind. I am a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England. And since the Scramble ended, since the West was won on wagon trails, it seems Mazzini's paradisiacal panopticon prevailed. My walkabouts no longer take me beyond a choice of different gaols. Why should I have to choose a state when every one of them has failed? I am a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England. And I promise not to overthrow the state if allowed to redraw the atlas before I emigrate. So I have sailed the seven seas alone, trying to find a shore I can call home, but all I found are different flags, double-speaking diplomats, and I do not have time for that. So I'll declare my own sovereign state, the borders based on the bottoms of my boots, and I will open embassies wherever the hell I please, and at assemblies you will see me sat but never on my knees. I am a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England. And I promise not to overthrow the state if allowed to redraw the atlas before I emigrate. And I'd gladly leave your Metternich's alone as long as where I lay my head I can be my very own. I am the Winchester lineman “ a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England, but here I will not remain “ I'll ride into the sunset, my horse waits on the plain. And I keep walking the line.