This college land is some skin job hallucination.
Bright lights that white was shite,
Glasgow swallowed the red pill
and will cough it up come Sunday.
I trod on floorboards last night.
Counted ceiling stars a twinkling
in the ballroom night.
I shared a roller disco with Rock Gods
and serial killers alike.
Washed them down to Rebel Tunes
in a dying marketplace.
Head held high I think of her.
How she said we shared a cityscape.
How she writes about Mark Twain
while I talk about life, mate.
She chose to be here
when all I can do is stay.
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