It's Friday night, you know, cramped in the back
Of a run down Audi. It's Friday night,
Children of France, and a line of red lights
Is slicing the slow downs of Brittany.
The hills are crawling with cars moving like
A procession of insects through summer:
We are the convoy and the colony,
We seek the beat and we seek the party!
Speakers stacked tall like totems in the mud,
Shrines served by hooded monks with confused smiles,
Ecstatic faces in the strobbing lights.
Soon all will kneel to the bass and forget
The cold air, the long week. We'll forget France.
And until the sharp sun's lights and the dew
Freeze our minds, we'll dance that broken dance,
Homage to an experience larger than we
Posted on 12th December 2014