I climb for London’s miry zenith,
to join what you’d term the Elite,
veiled in drapery of glib otherness.
We’ll get up there too, my partner.
Why go? Call it a chip of stature,
To do better than any silver spoon,
Middle class boys against breeding
– what a shit fan club that’d be.
But you know, I work like a dog,
pit sheepdog – 12 hour blackouts,
counting cobblestones on the wall,
headfirst on the way down the well.
You dun’ well lad. 32 meets 6 digits.
Oh horror—so many digits left,
so let’s cash in more days for chips
and play pinball for the high score.
Climb the hilltop to root for meaning,
No wonder I loved mountaineering.