The Verge

I remember the Friday nights Drinking tins on the tube up the Northern Line Off at Kentish town, out and left Wandering down about half of a mile Gary greets you there, drinking K with a toothless grin Andi's eyes dilate, he talks revolution You can lose your mind if that's your thing With the herberts and punks at the Verge There'll be no quiet tonight On the streets of London Better step aside for the whizz generation No use waiting up tonight Hannah brings a baby along Lil and Kaf might sign you if they like your songs Smelly Ben and Davey are dead and gone Ringing out, are the best of times Lauren dyes her chelsea crop into leopard skin Crusties line the curb, because they won't pay in You can knock back snakebites, get sick and spin With the skinheads and drunks at the Verge You'd soon know all the songs of the bands you'd meet There were 17 Stitches, and Inner T's Paint the family name onto leather sleeves The Foamers and ONB Now the venues gone, we were just passing through So the Reknaw mob, its all eyes on you Open up the squats, party line opens noon And the tunes will live on from the Verge