GOULDING'S GOURMET BUS!

And the inertia and the fog and the certainty of confusion
And the loss of control
And poppies grow do poppies still grow
And there was a gene there is a gene
Gene Pitney 24 hours without a drink
Would be a personal best
Georgie Best I spent a childhood in adoration
In the aim of the father and the son and the holy spirit
Uisce Beartha,

Would water by any other name taste as sweet
And I supported Northern Ireland
Because of him, a prize Plastic Paddy In Noddy Land
Red white and oh so blue,odd fish was I without blessed water
And I wore plastic football boots because of him
Bled because of him,
And I never saw him despite hundreds of miles travelled

I wished I was in Carrickfergus
I belonged,I should have been in Clonony
Where the castle looks out for me
I played hurling in the road
Before the big trucks came
Only for nights in Ballygrand
To Old Trafford and to Wembley
Always away was he

And then In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
He was there a lifetime too late in Manchester
Yards from me walking with Rodney Marsh
And I left the van and I ran
While horns blared I didn’t care
It was after the bomb
And I had lived
Still my ears rang racist taunts
And I ran like I had run from school to always just miss his soccer skills
And there he was in the flesh and I ran
And life unwound in every step
And reality tore my lungs and within ten feet I looked and saw and
Turned away
The world fell like scales and everything meant nothing.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
I lay on my back with the radio
Crickets sang
And the sun aglow
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Low lie the fields
Gone are our fields, my fields
Mushroom and thistle cow shite
House ,turf bog, memories in the dust.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
The enemy within
To you from failing hands we throw
He was my cousin my best friend
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We all die and this too shall pass
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
will always grow in Flanders fields.