30 druids chopping their beards

Tonight at Civic Solstice in Shoreditch, I’ll be performing a specially written piece called, Druids’ Beards Are So Long Because They Promise Fairy Mates They Won’t Shave Until They Reach The Solstice Party

I plan to wear this Alexander McQueen ‘Jerry Hall falling out of a limo’ dress, with a crown of ivy (which I’m about to weave in the garden)…the picture is from the Fourth Plinth last year.


Come druids, come ravers, chancers and poets

Up all night fiends and toothless lovers of Moet

Join the caravan junket, leaving town now

In it to win it, it’s the classic time to get out


This is it, Midsommer Solstice, the ultimate rave

The party we’ll etch with marigold shards to our graves

Owls, nightjars, foxes, tigers, eagles, magic dust

This is the one night of the year when darkness has daylust


Come passenger PR bullshitters and those who bookbind

Designers and managers, and drinkers in kind

Let’s ride and ride to pleasuredome skies

The one condition is to leave minds and IDs behind


We’re heading for the castle on yonder horizon

Where the switch lives for the sun to turn on

The departure point for projecting neon rays

Where angels rest with lovers, and twisting embryos of lines ley


Hay bales made of gold, A moat of ecstasy ale

Ivy growing 12 miles an hour up Tiffany silver rails

Morning dew and periwinkle tea

Free dresses from Alice Templerley


Come travel now, Ancients of Muuu, let the flames rage

Let’s run naked from new crystal lakes, Swim up hills of jade

Abandon the convoy of BMXs, BMWs, and ramshackle carts

Travel by muunlight as megacosm passengers with open hearts


When nightshadows are low, old spirits chase to the sun

The ghosts of our pasts, follow our fun fun fun

All gypsy roving comrades will crack open their skulls

With the dynamite daylight allowing full summer to unfurl


Bono and Jagger, Vogue and the BBC

Everyone’s going to celebrate their inner hippy

The stars will twinkle, as their minds let go

to a full hello of nature’s front row


On arrival the druids promise to chop off their beards

For fairies make wishes from face laces around here

So come Dalston moustasche fanicers and those who can’t grow long hair

Even the pixies will sell their bells, all for the joy of the fayre


But be warned it’ll rain forever if the druids smoke all the plants

Or they’ll have us rolling square rocks up hills for a self-sacrificial farce

And we’ll never get there to the Midsommer Solstice rave

The party we’d sell our limbs for, to moonbathe


Come fixers, come tricksters, come half shot tin drinkers

Dracula addicts and winkle pickers

Join the caravan junket, leaving town now

In it to win it, it’s the classic time to get out


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