for the riff within riff within riffing in-jokes
to layer up sore heads of regret we’ll warm to in time
so we can exchange knowing looks about passers by
and walk into inns, debating hazy recollections.
Stand by me in the fallout of my big mouth
charged on malt, water, hops and yeast
spouting off that little bit too loudly
turning the necks of big crowds ahead.
Pass me a piece of that magic pie
whilst the lyrics we pen fade in, fade out
about the girl in the dirty shirt.
D’you know what I mean?
I know, I think, I hope
you’ll fly all around the world this week
chasing yesterday down Sidney Street
drinking until the last train doesn’t come.