The Short Form (Nads)

Lyrics

Right then, lads. Lean in.
Another lesson from the cheap seats.

The year is... what, 1978?
The air in here is thick enough to chew.
Stale lager and vinegar from someone's chips.
And we're talking about words.
How they get born all long and fancy.
Like something out of a doctor's book.
Gonads.
Sounds like a Greek philosopher, doesn't it?
Two syllables, very proper.
Too proper for a place like this.

Language doesn't have time for that.
Not when the clock's ticking towards last orders.
You find the bit with the teeth. The engine.
And you chop the rest away.
You compress it. Squeeze it.
Till it's small and hard like a pebble.
From gonads... to nads.
One clean cut. Done.

I remember Dave Wiley at the oche.
Three pints in, aiming for a double-top.
The dart goes wide, hits the flock wallpaper.
And he doesn't sigh. He doesn't say "oh bother."
He spits it out. Nads.
Just the one syllable. A full stop.
A slammed door.
The sound of a thing that's finished.
No argument.

Language doesn't have time for two trips.
Not when the clock's ticking towards last orders.
You find the bit with the punch. The engine.
And you chop the rest away.
You compress it. Squeeze it.
Till it's small and hard like a pebble.
From gonads... to nads.
One clean cut. Done.

The clever sods will tell you it's from the Greek for 'seed'.
Imagine that. From some dusty scroll in Athens...
To Dave Wiley swearing at a dartboard in Manchester.
That's what we do. We take the long words from the clever folk.
And we run 'em over with a delivery van.
We shorten the fuse.
We make 'em ours.

There you have it.
The short form for a short life.
Now, who's getting the last round in?