2020 Minus Thirty

We shoe-gazed our way through happy Mondays
that year the Clyde’s heart ran culture
through its awarded veins.
Tie-dyed waist up, acid-washed hips down
we danced on inspiral carpets
as Mandela flew the coop to freedom.

Seattle spawned a generation x,
just fit enough to be dragged screaming
and shouting into the mosh pit—
where we stood on a precipice,
angst-ridden, apathetic
yet full of the century’s last flurry of sonic youth.

Nessun Dorma kept us awake all summer,
none shall sleep as Desert Shield rose,
curtains fell, a chip off the old Berliner’s block.
With a link in the chunnel, a kink in the ozone,
Weegies sat back, smiles better
licking our ice – ice – babies.

Hubble let Orion Nebula shine like a star,
while toil and poll tax trouble
burst Maggie’s veritable bubble.
Gazza gret a river, Imelda racketed up shoes
—by the score, they buzzed like they had
whizz strapped to their toes.

They came to our dear green place for the cultuur,
strike a pose Glesga, there’s nothing to it.
Home alone with yon goodfellas and real gone kids,
pride was found and grammar lost,
Auld Reekie, U Can’t Touch this,
glas cau, be it true, Nothing Compares 2 U.