I am where people still smoke at parties
And drink their hearts out when someone dies,
I am with the kids travelling so far East it’s tomorrow
With they who like orchestra but not the singing, with
They who run with scissors, they who trip and
Can’t tell a bad deal. They aren’t afraid any longer
Of what they want : I am with the old young,
Having not enough fuel in the tank
For the way back to the womb.
Allow me to talk up the motley crew :
We still need the money and we count Earth rotations
With clouds and seasons, and when we despair
We sing cries of love everywhere we stand,
And we can pick ourselves up from a wet ground,
Carried by good winds, sustained in the morning.
We slept in Chelsea, we slept in Berlin and woke up in the can
As analogue criminals do in a digital world.
No machine can yet simulate our boredom and holy
Irritation with the way the World goes,
We’ll go standing, we’ll go singing our drunken
Songs of cleverness, until we end up in a
Weather report or a maiden’s bittersweet rememberance.