Sixty steps, the stairway’s broken and you hear the stereo noises
on your knees you heal your bruises
and the raindrops start to roll down the forehead that is cold,
questions looking for their answers in a song that’s pretty dull
where Nottingham has roots in stories so it dreams itself alive
and its paths diverge in alleys that run farther from the Sun…

I have chosen, Ego sum, I was wrong,
perfect sense does not exist in a state of altered mist
it is pressure that transforms dirty coal into cliché shining bliss
– and not a kiss;
his ribs are cut from stone and so are all the looks he’s given
and the devil smiled and put a tingle on your lower Eastern lip…