Text: Johnny Foreigner. For the Chains.

They said it'd be like a wake but the closest I could match this to would be the last day of term, stealing desks as souvenirs.
About 130 years here, now we draw each other on the walls and new addresses are cold comfort to some.
With the squatters notices already stuck to the insides of the windows with yellowed sticky tape, you stayed up all night tearing doors off the hinges;
Now you lie down on the stage and the breeze keeps you awake.
This is long past debate.
Levels of hard won civic pride.
Yeah, the taxes were steep, but you can't compete with the big guns.
This town is for the chains now.
This community is undone.

Maybe the goosebumps on yr arm are the last ghosts leaving brushing past,
The old guard is over, the old guard is over now.

Maybe the goosebumps on yr arm are the last ghosts leaving brushing past,
The old guard is over, the old guard is over now.

So raise yr glasses to the new optimism.
Pulled brick by brick to the sound of breaking glass, overloaded and leaving removal vans, and the creak in the broken step on the fire escape that surely would have killed you had it had to endure one more bulging cardboard box.

Or cheap Ikea wardrobe.
Or speaker cabinet or hamster house.
Or broken set of disco lights.
Or collection of shoes that would shame Melda.
Or summer fan.
Or winter heater or a bin bag full of clothes you don't think you'll probably ever wear...