The morning of the Glastonbury Festival.
A field in Somerset.
Henry addresses his mates.

Henry:

He that hath no stomach for this gear
Can fuck off home; his Horlicks shall be made
And cash for Taxis thrust into his hand:
We would not club in that man's company
That fears his health to cane good drugs with us.

This day is called the feast of Glaston:
He that survives this day, and staggers home,
Will suffer flashbacks when this day is named,
And dribble at the name of Glaston.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil void his bowels,
And say "I shat myself like this at Glaston."
Then will he grind his teeth and roll his eyes
And say "That's how I looked at Glaston Bury."

Caners forget, yet all shall be forgot,
But they'll remember with advantages
What drugs they took that day: then shall their names,
festering in the liver like rancid turds,
Cocaine and pills, speed and ketamine,
Mushrooms and acid, Crystals and poppers,
Be in their cowering guts freshly remembered.

This story shall the caner teach his son;
And Glaston Bury shall ne'er go by,
From this day till Dave Blunkett catches on,
But those at it shall be muntered.

We few, we mashed-up few, we band of gurners;
For he that necks his pills with me
Shall be a gurner; be he ne'er so straight,
This day shall spangle his condition:
And gentlefolk in suburbs now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here
And hold their saneness cheap whilst any speak
That necked pills with us at Glaston Bury!

Is this a mirror which I see before me,
The line toward my hand? Come, let me snort thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, double vision, sensible
To feeling as to olfaction? or art thou but
A line of the mind, a credit card creation,
Proceeding to the heat-oppressed brain?
I sniff thee yet, in form as powdery
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such a rolled up tenner I was to use.
Mine eyes are made like two large dustbin lids
Or else worth all the rest; I smell thee still,
And from my knackered nostrils gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is expensive business which informs
Thus to mine nose. Now o'er the one toilet seat
The club seems alive, and wicked choonz abuse
And lure me back onto the dance floor.

[a whistle blows]

I go, and it is done; the DJ invites me.
Hear it banging, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to "Heaven" or any club off the Charing Cross Road.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold -
When ruined septums, or none, or few, do hang
Beneath this nose, which twitches like that fold
On grandma's fanny, after a vigorous bang -
In me thou see'st the ravages of MDA,
And pills, and speed, and Bolivia's best
Which by and by doth my sanity steal away,
Sure, soon enough, to leave me in a sleeveless vest.
In me thou see'st the strategies of youth backfire -
How small their truth, how large their lazy lie -
And my dreams, their victim, cannot but expire,
Consumed with that which they were nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy desire more strong
To cane it well, for thou must leave ere long.