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shoretosh0re:

Leftovers - a poem by Johnny Flynn
Oh, waiting criminals - aiming their spreeAt the keyless and giggling, last home for teaFind quite pillaged, fair ransacked and chomping for hoursBut a summer’s no bath without winter’s cold showers.Gone, we cut, here we blow, and if toothless, we wonderWhat the deal is with him who might cast us asunder;Near beginning or end, and we tend to forgetThat a push or a shove is the end we have met.So in making our homes on the sweet scented sandLays us quick to the castles I’d fell with my handsSans a wit you’d have rubble, nay blood in your moatWhen the turn of the tides puts us back in a boat.And if Noah’s gone sorting the hens from the eggsWell then you’d be all right - you’ve a long pair of legs.Be the child of your instincts and keep eyes for the villainsWho come tap on your knees with a beat copper shillingAnd say “Haul away your sorrows, man, haul away your days,Throw the lot - to care is not today, so haul away”.
Alpha blonde and timid auburn, cooked with gin and wineSaunter through a lonely street to patronise the pigeonsWhen a storm of burly children fled from parents hit the sceneCoughing sicknesses that last a day and spitting for the stronger teamCheck the town hall clock at five to twelve and let me paint thepicture;We’ve a weeping man and all his closures opened by the mixtureOf the burly children he was not and lady he’s not neitherAnd in not being them or half way there, he could have been but either.But either, borne of broke and bitWas ne’er to be the choicest fitSo left and over, cleft and neverGoing to be quite that good ever,Blonde’s been on a different tack -Devoid of fetish - fancies lackThe blessed rule; a true decorum.Fancies knock but he ignores ‘em.

shoretosh0re:

Leftovers - a poem by Johnny Flynn

Oh, waiting criminals - aiming their spree
At the keyless and giggling, last home for tea
Find quite pillaged, fair ransacked and chomping for hours
But a summer’s no bath without winter’s cold showers.
Gone, we cut, here we blow, and if toothless, we wonder
What the deal is with him who might cast us asunder;
Near beginning or end, and we tend to forget
That a push or a shove is the end we have met.
So in making our homes on the sweet scented sand
Lays us quick to the castles I’d fell with my hands
Sans a wit you’d have rubble, nay blood in your moat
When the turn of the tides puts us back in a boat.
And if Noah’s gone sorting the hens from the eggs
Well then you’d be all right - you’ve a long pair of legs.
Be the child of your instincts and keep eyes for the villains
Who come tap on your knees with a beat copper shilling

And say “Haul away your sorrows, man, haul away your days,
Throw the lot - to care is not today, so haul away”.

Alpha blonde and timid auburn, cooked with gin and wine
Saunter through a lonely street to patronise the pigeons
When a storm of burly children fled from parents hit the scene
Coughing sicknesses that last a day and spitting for the stronger team
Check the town hall clock at five to twelve and let me paint the
picture;
We’ve a weeping man and all his closures opened by the mixture
Of the burly children he was not and lady he’s not neither
And in not being them or half way there, he could have been but either.

But either, borne of broke and bit
Was ne’er to be the choicest fit
So left and over, cleft and never
Going to be quite that good ever,
Blonde’s been on a different tack -
Devoid of fetish - fancies lack
The blessed rule; a true decorum.
Fancies knock but he ignores ‘em.

formyhomeland said: That b-side, The Heretic, had me thinking that… I hope he experiments more.

me too! he has the talent and imagination to go in so many different directions with his sound.