List of the Lost - Morrissey

At the ivy halls in dreamy central Beantown, the quartet
warmed up beneath the contemptuous giant shadow of
Priorswood, with its tower aloft like a snooty nose of
supremacy, its historic standing being reason enough to glare
down with full repulsion at the deformed modern world.
Sprinklers on the football field and sunlight flooding The
Great Library wheezed a privileged blow of warm air across
the absorbed and collected students of intense expressions and
processed formulations clanking about inside their spaghetti
heads – so small and lost are they, so petty their actual bloodand-guts
experience, yet oh so very ripe for clever positions
within the judiciary or the media, and with their narrow
historical views the students will become unbreakable in their
steely assurances, and whatever the unreliable and self-serving
shit story history books have left out does not matter, as long
as their own life happens as designed, for it is all and
absolutely only about money. Social consciousness and
abnormal pre-eminence certainly take their little place at
Priorswood, whilst naked life is elsewhere, and is irrelevant
when pitted against the literary pretensions and superiority
complex of social position. The catatonic magpies are called to
and they line up, and the theorists theorize without ever getting
their feet wet. Ezra whispers in warning to the other three. “It’s
here,” he says, as Mr Rims approaches. “Did he really part
with money for that shirt?” murmured Justy.
“He found it on a bus,” smiled Nails.
“He found it down the back of a couch,” added Justy.
“I heard exactly what you just said,” came Mr Rims, jejune
jesting ( having heard nothing ), and well aware of his clichéd
self. “Even worse, I saw that last track attempt and I wonder
what exactly you’d call it. Performance art … Community
Theater? It’s anybody’s guess, of course. I at least had the
benefit of watching you from the window and no closer. That’s
all that can be said in your favor.”
“We were just practicing,” smiled the Ezra of goodness.
“Evidently,” sniffed Mr Rims. “Now, as you know,
complaining is all I have left in life, but I like to think I still
have my finger firmly up the pulse when it comes to choosing