The Gall Of Man
Those lads are urban shepherds, see them stride. Masculine and content in sin, since they seek sex and 3,4-methylenedioxy- methamphetamine replete, evenings. Hiking o’er concrete pasture, dripping in finest designer and eye liner, Wearning new buzz cuts and new skin tight jeans, they walk their moorland, in adorn’ed swank. Each lad herds a broody slew of girls of easy virtue. They slur their song from an Estuary tongue, sounding no less as sweet; yet they’re anyone’s once last orders' reached. Drifting through their own Golden Age, tarmac garden; the dappled greys that pave their foot- fall, give way to well worn dance floors, as melody flips powdered kisses cross their lips, It’s not about getting smashed, but rather growing o’er flowed by pools of romance; romantic poets and clergymen know it, they each seek pastures equally enraptured. ‘Afore the fall of man, bliss and richest romance bloomed, we still seek for nothing more; but now the gall of man has bourne the law, to keep the revl’ry under lock and key. Wide eyed, rapt in pastoral sentiment, their hearts ablaze in heavn’ly disarray, MDMA fuelled lads seek dreamscapes draped in melody, with all of nature’s grace.