Moon Cresta was Galaxians
And by extension Galaga as well
Sky Kid was Scramble
But they hid it pretty well
Street fighter was yie ar Kung fu
Though it made a lot more money
Hyper sports was track and field
Or the or the other way round
Memory
Is so funny
Some say Hunchback begat Donkey Kong
But that's a bit o a stretch
But nowt beats Asteroids
The original and best.

The Hobs of hell have to be operated
In a rotational system for maintenance and cleaning
Even though the work's intense
They're never exactly gleaming

Though the workforce is unlimited
And of course they get motivated
The endless drip of blood and filth
Gets baked on fast
Hard accumulated

The demon chargehands
Drive on the ******
With whip and fork and brand
But The broken barely keep up
In this accursed land

And so I think of childhood
With my poor mother near in tears
As she proclaimed the above Sisyphean task
Akin to cleaning
Behind my ears.

I grew up round the corner
From where Clive Barker was born
Though he's twenty years older
That was where we called home
He described the neighbourhood
In the first chapters o Weaveworld
I viddied it well
I could follow the lead role
Could see the portal to hell
It's quite a feeling
It's quite the trip
To see a bestseller
In the streets which you skip
Once you learn you live parallel
To the abyss

That's hard to shake.
As the midnight meat trains
Rattle the back gates

When you're in the subterranean chamber
That must be quite the feeling
In that tiny bubble
Just above the ceiling
grows a hillock
O the local limestone
A hundred foot above
Topped by more o the same
Blocks two and a haf million strong
Times approx two and a haf ton per block
Could be six million ton all told.

I'd **** me self.

What's that thing that you Yanks do?
From the civil war to World War Two
From Gettysburg to the sea o tranquility
That haunting sound gets driven into me
Through the smoke and swathed in reverb
The nations emotions
Sonically preserved
Uniquely you
You ******* own it
That old evocative
American trumpet.

What's that thig that you Yanks do?
From the civil war to World War Two
From Getsyburg to the sea o tranquility
That haunting sound gets driven into me
Through the smoke and swathed in reverb
The nations emotions
Sonically preserved
Uniquely you
You ******* own it
That old evocative
American trumpet.

The pan is hot
The oil it spits
Yesterday's *****
Has given me the *****
If I drop it in right
I get those bubbles that I like
Thin and crispy
And crunchy to the bite
**** hot and salty
And peppery to the max
Each one o these tasty *******
A step to heart attacks
Though the greeze and the salt
Might stop me feeling rough
I'm going back to
New York City
I do believe I've had enough.