I spent my best years,
masticating,
chewing time in a bedsit, fading,
while the Salford dour composed the plans
for a Northern navel-gazing band.

With a noted accent and penchant for
the adverse stance,
to a South/North refrain still amplified,
this harboured humour cripple,
plugged in,
downstream of the main supply.

Not the friendliest district....
my bloody eggs were always swiped.
The food thief,
a Night Nurse dosed postal ripper,
whose volume switch was glued to eleven,
gristly blasted his anti-everything riff
and double tracked the morning door.

I escaped, transposed to a cellar pitch,
with a window that provided one seratonin dose of
daylight, no larger than a 12 inch sleeve.
Underground,
an octave below,
with cups of Royal butts from fadeout mode,
just beneath the treble clicks of knifed up pre-chavs
and the tempo plod
of the daily work rotation squad.

I wasn't a member, (you may of sussed),
a white labelled 'waster', an offkey work leper,
('I paid my taxes for this dross!')
Free to research the music scene
(unofficially)
but, 'took it all too seriously'-
stretching to compose
something of lasting resonance....

well, tell me, what else is worth taking seriously?

We were named Bird.
(Cue flocks of featherless quips
at our expense -
'A flight of fancy. A sharp descent')
Our songs barely hatched, half arranged,
(on the wing),
nestled in the hiss coupled muffle of magnetic c60's.

Acoustic strum and drummerless hum,
backed to bass murmur of standard rejection slips.
We were minimal,
'lo-fi' (low fly?),
which, in this case, means...
'not very good'.

Lyrics weren't bad though ;)