Orla

They say up your game, you lazy sycophants, less suffer what remains, listening to the old songs, who would ever lance, such need to belong, watching the trains, snake down a naked gap, sails in the bay, swells of crowded bars, cargo ships and shining paths, rooms with dark marks, red lips white-faced, we start again to dance, willing our tunes to play, better to rumble along, echoing holy chants, say we’re not wrong, before night's out today, we'll polish unlit lamps, take what comes our way, maintain our balance.