Oh my, how we do dream
Of singing for the absolute masses – a grand old salute in our every direction, discretion an agonised thing of our forlorn past
One blast of that electronically prised guitar and we’re right back where we belong
Two hungry and altogether youthful musicians hellbent on sending these ten thousand such arms flailing, no necessity whatsoever to tail off ever again
Start as soft as can be before tying a pretty bespoke ribbon right round the rather hazardous underbelly, notorious in one worrisome word
Not too long now ’til we get to appear upon that clapped-out, all too famed black and white telly
A 1960’s seriously hazed salute to the whole damn system, perhaps carrying with us a fairly affable degree of pretentious precision?
Regret a surefire thing of our all too shy past, when we continuously rewind whilst finally lifting our bedraggled minds to let ourselves laugh – ‘The Ice-Man’ and ‘The Jester’
And they will forever get to say that it’s all been in the name of making art
Go on, watch us stumble ’til we build a throne

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