We’re shadows on a spotlighted street, stretching and crawling and reaching for the light of the burning ember on the end of rolled up, dove-tailed, burning jay.

We stand around in a tight circle
to keep the cops away
to keep the smell away
to keep the others away.

We are a band of tea-heads inhaling to save our lives, chasing the thoughts that only serve to bring us down. Gotta get higher, gotta get nummer, gotta get goner.

We gather around and pass it around and if you’re not in our circle then stay-the-fuck-away.

We don’t need any passers by, tea-heads like only other tea-heads when we stand in the circle. Like the mad ones only liking the other mad ones, like the hipsters only liking the other hispsters, like the poets who stand in front of cold microphones trying to be someone, something, somewhere…

We tea-heads stand here in our circle and pass the rolled up dove-tailed burning ember from tea-head to tea-head and say tea-headed things like, “someday we’ll be the ones, the firestarters”

and

“who knows where we will be lil allen, the whole mad swirl of everything to come begins now, dude. this is our on the road, this is our howl, this is our naked fucking lunch!”

But who gives a fuck what we do ‘cos it’s nothing compared to the truth, the words, or this tight circle of tea-heads standing under cold street spotlights, casting cold shadows on a cold autumn night. The rolled up dove-tailed jay goes wafting away and the circle breaks and we all go our seperate tea-headed ways.