Next up were songs. Not modern ones exactly (the examples we were given mostly dated back several centuries), but since I tend to slip archaic language into sentences ('ye cannae be serious', etc) I wanted to drag my thoughts forward in time and, well, they settled at around 1970. There's still a fair amount of word contractions, but I think this enhances rather than detracts from the subjec' ma'er.
Replaced with dumb and patronising off-the-shelf revenge.
A culture deep as epidermis—little to avenge.
Locked in bedrooms whining that it's all misunderstood,
crave attention of the in-crowds, arms are slick with blood.
Such pretty, silly, vacant things, a youth that do not know,
events of that October twelfth, hotel room one-oh-oh.
That suicide is not a game, but fear, nor can they cry
Of passions dark, “too weird to live, and [yet] too rare to die”.
Nancy, You were my little baby girl And I knew all your fears Such joy to hold you in my arms And kiss away your tears But now you're gone There's only pain And nothing I can do And I don't want to live this life If I can't live for you. John Simon Ritchie, 1957-1979