These nights

These nights are called Lost Evenings:
They that survive these nights, and come safe home,
will stand on tip-toe when these nights are named,
and rouse them at the name of Camden.
They that live this night, and see old age,
will yearly on the vigil feast their neighbours,
and say "Tomorrow's Lost Evenings!"
Then will they strip their sleeves, and show their ink,
and say, "These marks I had on Camden days."

Old ones forget; yet all shall be forgot,
but they'll remember with advantages
what feats they do tonight. Then shall these names —
  Frank the King, Nigel, Benjamin,
  Matt and Tarrant, all the Sleeping Souls —
be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the agèd teach the young,
and Lost Evenings shall ne'er go by
from this day to the ending of the world
but we in it shall be remember'd:
we few, we happy few, we band of comrades.
For they tonight that shed their sweat with me
shall be my comrades, be they ne'er so vile:
this night shall gentle their condition.

And music fans in England now abed
shall think themselves accursed they were not here
and hold their fandom cheap while any speaks
that danced with us upon Lost Evenings.
 

Legion

We all need a place to sleep,
  to rest our weary bones
  and bruises from the mosh pit:
  it's no time to be alone.
A festival in Camden?
  No field to pitch a tent?
  I could book some sketchy hostel
  or a hotel down in Kent.
But wouldn't it be good if
  someone could find a spot,
  could book a big apartment
  and fill it with us lot?
Yes, might it not be better
  to find yourself a pack
  and head down to the Roundhouse
  with a Legion at your back?

They soon signed up from Glasgow
  Nottingham and Norwich town,
  from Switzerland and Portugal
  the Legion gathered ground.
Liam worked in merch sales
  so he could sort us out:
  we've Legion shirts and hoodies (... and hats, and bumbags, and flags - come find me afterwards)
  and you'll know when we're about.
So, twenty-seventeen, Lost Evenings:
  last minutes, can't be beat,
  sixteen new best buddies
  in a house on Oakley Street.
And yes, it's so much better
  when you've found yourself a pack
  to head down to the Roundhouse
  with a Legion at your back.

Then: YNot, Trees, and Reading
  and a hundred random gigs:
  Punches, Marwood, Felix, Skinny,
  all the others in the mix.
Twenty-eighteen: back to Camden,
  thirty-nine strong we go
  to fill the whole of Legion house
  and a pop-up garden show.
Then mini-tours of Germany,
  and Belgium, Luxembourg:
  flights and trains and hostels
  with our growing mongrel hörde.
And everywhere it's better
  to have yourself a pack,
  to head down to the venue
  with a Legion at your back.

Twenty-nineteen, Boston,
  the Legion hopped the pond.
  New faces, Jameson pancakes
  to seal the common bond.
Then twenty-twenty Evenings -
  new chapters to begin ...
  So FUCK CORONAVIRUS
  and: _next year_, in Berlin.
Which brings us back to Camden:
  survivors, limping home.
  What even is a mosh pit,
  after two years on your own?
Yes, it's always better
  when you've found yourself a pack
  to head down to the Roundhouse
  with a Legion at your back.
So if you need a place to sleep
  to rest your weary bones
  and bruises, from the mosh pit,
  get in touch: you're not alone.