Future histories will tell us quite enoughnOf maps and wars and all that scientific stuffnBut what of this bearded angel, who can understand?nBut for now let’s call him Portobello MannnDistortly different from the colour be remainsnNo capes, no mandarins, no silver bells or chainsnThey lifted a stencil binder off its metal standnAnd they found the ends of Portobello MannnThey scoured the markets and the vintage clothing shopsnThey studied old photographs of where he might have stoppednThey dug out there granddads albums buried in the sandnAnd they reconstructed Portobello MannnThe popular theorists denounce him as a hoaxnHis right old musings, his music and his smokesnBut then isn’t freedom part of everybody’s plan?nAnd it leads us all to Portobello MannAnd it leads us all to Portobello Man