What happened to them there writers who
When they wrote we would be moved to write
Who would be called HR Juggler, or Garelaos, or MJ, or Fuchsiablue, or MHIOP (iykyk), or Punk Rock, or a DDS here and a Heath there. Oh, but oh
That it would be cutting, and direct, and attacking, hilarious and funny, and people would be upping their arms
That grammer be damned, spelling didn’t care, and pop culture be strewn, but damn the bodies and damn the high and the mighty
Where it took Superman to revolve through the door
Where a question left you thinking and searching
Where a comment encouraged further debate
What goes around? Madness in the halls, and those flipchart fairytales,
When I’d read and then want to discuss
Masters or bust? And those airmiles? Or our dear Flora who walked and camped the length of wonderful Britain
I am romantic for those days
Them days when they them wrote and we moved the goddamned fucking world.
