Away from the hypnotic lighting, the crush of commercialism,
There’s a corner of this shopping centre that defies neoliberalism,
Far removed from commercial radio and snippy social media feeds,
There’s a pocket of tranquility that can briefly serve your needs.
The speakers here spurt out an entirely different set of values,
It’s like reading real journalism over everyday tabloid news,
It’s honest songwriting – not stripped of soul to make a ton,
You get the sense whoever programmed it is about to be moved on.
There are only eight songs this world ever cares about,
And we have to replay them incessantly – and shout, shout, shout.
But someone, it seems clear, has broken this huge machine,
Here, in this unlikely public place, it’s not all vapid and ultra-clean.
So let’s sit in this hard, dirty shopping centre chair,
Enjoy this taste of normal people laying their souls bare,
Breathe in all their culture – soon it will be too late,
The shops close soon and the cleaners come in around eight.