Fack it - I’m outta here now, I’m going backwards - why pretend to care about the future when the past is what matters; Fack it I’m going back to being a failed poet, lounging alone in a dusty slat light pub, dole-eyed, temple-barred, kicking down the cobblestones in a long coat and longer hair hanging, a pocket Penguin and knackered boots, hassling and hustling, anything to get higher, to feel, to be real for ya - I remember that summer in. . . weren’t they the rare auld days, counting coins outside the arches, tinkering on the street, standing on the strand, looking over the water, through the telly, to the Tele on the other side and so we fled like earls but but but that, fack it, that Rimbaud rock ’n roller rises again from the ashes of Rashers, strutting the Strumpet city, as the glass grows higher the kids dig lower, revel in the freedom, Liberties for all!, in a city with history no longer a nightmare, so there ya are now on the wrong side of the revolution, on the wrong side of the ocean, when you could be on a party with a fraternity of romantics helpless on the pace of Kerouac and Kavanagh, singing along with Them and Thurston Moore, swinging on the Five Lamps, the inexplicable lightness of being in a band, in being in a band from Dublin, after all, and fack it now my past is their now, and they ride and they ride new wave after new wave these young modern lovers, Retro-Post-Punk, The Fontaines D.C. who play as if Dublin is Greenwich Village and who sing as if Dublin is Paris in Spring as if pride in the name of Dublin has been etched in the hardened earth since the land first rose from the death throes of Atlantis, instead of just the stuff of a future which never facking happened. Fack it!, fetch me my paddle, I’m outta here.