Knives drawn and mad keen to cut it out,
They came looking for the heart of Saturday night.
Hands held in the gloaming,
That small-town movie where we are the small-time stars – slashed.
Smashing the dash of melancholy,
When the moment’s liquid in the mirror behind the bar.
This was a one-way mission: gun the motor; kill the self-loving, self-loathing self-doubt.

How many had to die, you numbskulls, to affirm your existence for the eight minutes before death by cop?

Drive-in, stroll-on Saturdays may never be the same
We can only make them better.
Don’t say we owe it to the dead,
Or we’ll have let our freedom become burdensome
Do it for ourselves,
For who we are without the daily grind to make us dumb
Our mission is this: fix what’s under the hood, discover what we’re like unfettered

And if sometimes an unknown voice which has to be the ghost of that Saturday night….
It’s OK – she’s on our side.