Dreamt of the past, walking towards the stadium, through the old neighbourhood, and I see McMahon, in a plastic cubicle, looking at me, shrivelled in dust, by time.
Move towards the shadow, huge dude, to sneak back in, why does the past look so old now?
And mate, you never used to do this alone, did you?
Remember the people, the young people, just beginning, carefree, stupid, drugged with joy and the illusion of never ending time.
Bearded now, we talk of Brexit and diets, connected to eve’s apple, convincing ourselves that we are not alone.
Spoiler mate, we are, and you can’t put your arms around a memory, as Johnny used to say.
Our stadium is gone, and the manic youth of the past are the old men of today.
You didn't expect it to come around so soon did you?
And I have another question for you.
Do you remember Benny Hill, and what we did to him?
And if you don’t know what I'm talking about, you’ll get it, in time, if you’re still here, and if you still care.
And that’s it for today, as the buzz outside reminds me that the day is almost done, and I haven’t even opened my blinds yet.