The Verge

I remember the Friday nights
Drinking tins on the tube up the Northern Line
Off at Kentish town, out and left
Wandering down about half of a mile
Gary greets you there, drinking K with a toothless grin
Andi's eyes dilate, he talks revolution
You can lose your mind if that's your thing
With the herberts and punks at the Verge

There'll be no quiet tonight
On the streets of London
Better step aside for the whizz generation
No use waiting up tonight

Hannah brings a baby along
Lil and Kaf might sign you if they like your songs
Smelly Ben and Davey are dead and gone
Ringing out, are the best of times
Lauren dyes her chelsea crop into leopard skin
Crusties line the curb, because they won't pay in
You can knock back snakebites, get sick and spin
With the skinheads and drunks at the Verge

You'd soon know all the songs of the bands you'd meet
There were 17 Stitches, and Inner T's
Paint the family name onto leather sleeves
The Foamers and ONB
Now the venues gone, we were just passing through
So the Reknaw mob, its all eyes on you
Open up the squats, party line opens noon
And the tunes will live on from the Verge