Come talk to me over the chattering mouths
Of customers and acquaintances.
We can drink coffee in the beer garden,
Agitating the tobacco leaves far too often
And using friendship as therapy.

You’ll sit with your sunglasses framed in your hair.
An old scar is a teardrop, as we claim compensation
For the damage done in our years apart.
Come walk with me through old graveyards,
As the living take to existence.

Teenagers catcall and chase each other in the park,
They shelve their hair in the wind
And religiously practice apathy.
We link arms past the tree hollow full of syringes,
Knowing there is nothing left to surprise us.

These streets are turning into a gamble;
Bookmakers, cash converters and hairdressers
Train feet towards the old clock tower.
Only the sprawl of supermarket isles
Keeps ignorance well-fed in this town.

Come listen to these old songs with me.
The poet is dead, but the melody lives,
And it is still wonderful to be alive.
Come with me past the crooked spire;
The devil left long ago.