Fine wines out of my way,

we've only just matured.

Seen some fucking centuries we have,

in text books and criticisms.

See we're a vintage stock,

of lock, cock and barrel,

and who needs sour grapes

when you can gorge yourselves on us?

Still your 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's what have ya,

Seem covered in dust,

while some of you rust,

in your dismay of a time that outgrew you.

 

We pick up the pieces and carry them on

and what we've begun,

is a den of iniquity and desperate intellectuals,

gliding through an era of artists,

all trying to express their own 90's emotions.

To dare. To fight. To scream ahead whilst we

shake our chains,

that link us to the DNA,

of some almighty BEING.

All the while we're getting closer.

To a fading sun and the warmth of some kind of GOD.

 

A millennium is almost over,

but we're not close enough

yet.