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Bowhemia
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Peter Doherty
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1
What is it?
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It's bow's orange sunset spring,
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That quick step groove down the Grove Road,
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It's the blue smoke glamour of crack slab urban bohemia,
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The richest man alive doesn't have a penny,
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And I'm looking to cash in on his wisdom,
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Looking out for the wise in his eyes and the ice in his next drink,
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And his next drink,
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And his next drink,
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And his next drink,
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I watch the world, its tower blocks headbutting the skyline,
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So stitch that,
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That slit in the sky like a knife gash, and a fallen sixties leather jacket,
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The tenements so unlovely and kitsch,
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And the people rolling on in our colours and classes, classes and colours,
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The beats of New London,
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Twisted by the bitter rhythm of the wrong education,
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In the big schools,
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On the bigger grey gothic, pink plastic flower estates,
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Twizzling our biros and cashing our giros,
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And it's tupence for your philosophy,
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And tupence for your dreams,
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Fair ye unwell on the welfare,
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And the state is a fair man-made maid,
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It understands the sweet sickly pleasure of melancholy,
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The malign happiness of the horrors,
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Lick die happiness of the horrors,
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Delights in the mystery of it's own misery,
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A modern love,
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So here we are,
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The fucked generation,
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At the fag-end of the 20th century A.D.,
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Young and still breathing,
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But now it's a trial,
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Cause we tried it all and we're tired by it all,
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Too much, too young, too often, too many times,
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And it's too late,
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But we're not surrendering though,
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Fuck no we're not,
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We're on the offensive,
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On all fours in the puddles of No Man's Land,
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And in that manner we move to the rhythms of ice cream vans playing "Λoranges and lemons',
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And police sirens spinning and waking their mythical wails,
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Calling us to ourselves,
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Opium for the elite,
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Yeah, and there's his illegitimate brother,
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Inexpensively smacking the kids of Stepney, at a cost,
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So let's step out now, you and I,
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Let's go now and stay a while,
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Underneath the sun,
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A council street lamp left on in the middle of the day,
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Tussling with gravity, branding skin,
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And it will tussle and brand, tussle and brand until it explodes.
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Tussle and brand until the sun explodes.
Peter Doherty - Last Of The English Rose...
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