The time is half past Brixton, St. Mathews church bells chime,
The night never quite falls here, but thrashes through the
grime.
The preacher on the corner waves a finger at the damned,
As sinners crowd at cash points & bars get slowly rammed.
The streets are always busy, the boozers mostly full,
A friendly blend of cultures on the piss & on the pull.
Wish upon a Dogstar, taste some Brixton Jamm,
Always have a Plan B and a shot glass near to slam.
The time is half past Brixton, two DJs mix & spin,
As a chemical concoction starts to buzz beneath your skin.
A sea of smiling faces and waves of pounding beats,
That shake the walls and stir the schools of dancers from their
seats.
The atmosphere’s electric, the crowd begins to roar,
Strangers cheer and spill their beer then hug and cheer some
more.
In the smoker’s garden you find a friend passed out.
With two crumpled concert tickets that they bought (drunk) from
a tout.
The time is half past Brixton, the sun begins to rise,
Zombies on Coldharbour Lane with glazed & bloodshot eyes.
You could go to club four one four, you could go home to bed.
But the time is half past Brixton so you’ll go just where you're
led.
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