Invocation of MES

Dear dead friends
We are gathered here
At Blackley Cemetery
Eat meat, drink beer
Drop acid, snort speed
And let us invoke
The Hip Priest
Swig whisky, smoke weed
He still can be seen
He still can be heard
His voice still echoes
Each lyric, each word
He still sneers
At the world

Those self-elected

Hinterland intellectuals

That dare to question him  

Witch finder
M-E-S
MEssssssssssmessss
Messianic
Messenger

Mister  
Mess
Mark
Edward
Smith

MES
Of Broughton born
Slum thing
A changeling
Reverberations
In the red brick
Reservations
Of his tribe
Psy-kick dancefloor scribe
Conspiracy vibe

Witch trial vibrations
The Irwell swells
With the dead dogs
And the anaconda cut
Stops the floods
As Ordsall clogs
Tap out the runes
In Angel Meadow
The Connemara tunes
Whistle down the docks

This demented English dream

Housing scheme

What about us?

Prole Art Terrorists

Council rent arrears

Big biz opportunists

Selling punk junk

No X-mas for John

Who makes the NME?

All the O’s?

All the No’s

All the Pose

Lucifer over Levenshulme

Drip down devil drops

On the City hobgoblins

Kippax cool cats

On the down slide

From Hulme to Moss Side

And the feral dogs feast

In Walkden and Weaste

Alehouse augur

Measure me out my life in fags

Sulphate semazen  

Sing -uh

And- uh

Snarl- uh

All the uhs

You are finally

Ah – pre-see-ate-ed