It's hazy on the horizontal,
back like what we were 25 ago.
The form was 6 and out the window,
we were blanket-bound and figuring out.
But like a morning after brew, strong and
Sweet, it memory sticks, like gratitude.
It's hazy on the horizontal, back when
we were rakes on the moor, shag-haired
crap-carred, clocking up kips and lifts and
part-time mothering like sucking pigs for
the butties some habits couldn't take. Back when
we were watch-less with the only solid thing
to pass our liquor lips was and tripe and we
were one dropped 'd' away from certainty.
Back when we were made of rubber and
bounced and stretched our necks and
necked in stretches in improbable leather
jackets drinking fairy liquid and glass,
grass laid by the motorway as angels with arty
faces in ringer tees fire-set all over the place.
Did it ever rain back when? Who knows,
we were curious, we were yellow,
we were certainly not Burley, we hitched
in from Ashton, Burnley, swam forth in
Firths, rattled Potts in Trees, sat on our
Botts with Janes of various sizes, got
pissed as sods, shipped in inevitable Barrows,
remained happy, forgetful and Moody.
Some past has passed as tunnel trudge.
Some as fireworks (accidental, not our fault).
Some hungry loves. Some wanted salt.
Some's lain bases of good sauce
and built foundation, for all of us,
and the boy from the wrong generation.