What is it?
Its Bows orange sunset swing,
That quick step groove down the Grove Road,
Its the blue smoke glamour of crack slab urban bohemia,
The richest man alive doesnt have a penny,
And Im looking to cash in on his wisdom,
Looking out for the wise in his eyes on the ice in his next drink,
And his next drink,
And his next drink,
And his next drink,
I watch the world as tower blocks huddle in the sky lines,
So stitch that,
That slit in the sky like a knife gash in a full length sixties leather jacket,
The tenements so unlovely and kitsch,
And the people rolling on in our colours and classes, classes and colours,
The beats of New London,
Twisted and bitter rhythm by the wrong education,
In the big schools,
On the bigger grey gothic, pink plastic flower estates,
Twizzling our biros and cashing our giros,
And its tupence for your philosophy,
And tupence for your dreams,
Fair ye unwell on the welfare,
And the state is a fair man-made maid,
It understands the sweet sickly pleasure of melancholy,
The lick die happiness of the horrors,
Delights in the mystery of its own misery,
Of modern love,
So here we are,
The fucked generation,
Of the fag-end of the 20th century A.D.,
Young and still breathing,
But now its a trial,
Cause we tried it all and were tired by it all,
Too much, too young, too often, too many times,
And its too late,
But were not surrendering though,
Fuck no were not, On the offensive,
Were on all fours in the puddles of No Mans Land,
And in that manner we move to the rhythms of ice cream vans playing oranges and lemons,
And the police sirens spinning the weak in their mythical wails,
Calling this to ourselves,
Opium for the elite,
Yeah, and theres his illegitimate brother,
Inexpectedly smacking the kids of Stepney, at a cost,
So lets step out now, you and I,
Lets go now and stay a while,
Underneath the sun,
A council street lamps left on in the middle of the day,
tussling with gravity,
Branding skin,
And it will tussle and brand,
Tussle and brand,
Till it explodes.