Salvation Army Band Played the Stranglersthe S… x From St Kilda to Nana Bottom Step… (Mashup)

The light will warm us, all that emerges is hope and rebirth, clothed in brightness, a cloak of brilliance, wishing you in whispers, Holy Life will soon be yours, forever the brightness and fulfilled yearning, peaceful haunting quiet, a hush before the march, a breath before the charge. The light will warm us as black flags tremble, all that emerges is hope and rebirth out of iron and embers, clothed in brightness over blood‑wet earth, a cloak of brilliance draped on marching shadows, wishing you in whispers, through teeth and tartan, Holy Life will soon be yours when drums and pipes are calling… Now hear them: angels in formation over iron rails, battle hymn in 432 hertz, bagpipes calling through the harbour haze, no pennies, no thong under the tartan’s skirt so short it should have been wrong but somehow was perfect, no pennies seen under wool‑worn tartans, ghosts in armor, wings in brass. Bottom steps become the mustering ground, backlit bottom steps, black hill blackness, Meri came, saw, and went against a sweet little perfect address, words never to be sent. Meri death asked for nothing, never said she wanted salvation, never even heard the word, forget all you believe, she never said repent, never sat in a prison, never been to the kirk, never knew the cruel old time vengeance, old test, know what I meant. Holy wore a flat‑brimmed black hat, she never cooked meth, not yet tested a bubble bath with a pH kit, showed no interest in new wave one, nor wore a revivalist dress, not a girl searcher for no wanted religion. No wanting to be saved now, didn't take antidepress, ADHD, she had a little scent in the purse, just a secret shot of something you carefully can use, she never abused. Whatever it was, nowhere’s everything, bagged up and went, not her problem— if you got one, tough, stop avoiding your own mysterious drink and sedative thing between you, the doct and the herb. We know your disordered head, me, these, us, this blood‑beat, but Meri not got the hep happy hippy spin with the can‑a‑burst pez, she as a bests, living her own thin bub, twenty‑six, pale perfect skin, marching within. To inauguration over concrete walk across bridge, Holy wore white, but some of us could sense the sense of Merideth secrets, victorious forbidden nights. She wore the dark cherry night‑after‑sex sweat and looked like a masterpiece, Sunflowers, Vincent self‑portrait, as if angels bled in oils on canvas. Sixteen million bricks in the flat‑bed chev, drive it outta Burma Brev, take it to the bottom steps— this is the place we start the bids, this is the square we start the ranks. Did I have a starter for sixteen K? (auctioneer rattles off, drum‑roll cadence, pipe‑drone undertow) Selling the perfect immaculate Merideth canvas, Bottom Steps, darkness is broken by a flash of steel, boots on stone, orders cutting through the night: whoo r wen we Merideth? war not pennies, wakin up on top concrete, elbow stickin my head. Faction‑left heads all staring up, and that's a sign she alright from the gods— she going to Nana, to St Kilda, to Kings X shift her, ask for a drink and her baggage from the Brev who is now back from Burma, immaculate condition in a clep veggie begge like tight yoga pants some tourists phat‑walk. Boxy glass bottoms, beats skipping up the ground step, shadows body‑best trophy upper comer wiva uppercut to drop the Brev heavy— count 1, 2, 10, over, she the champ. Stiff in this, and shake out your head, get clear. Ready, battlefield: 1, 2, 3, 4 — pipes scream, drums answer, Highland ghosts in tartan file, phantom kilts around the steps, angel‑steel at every mile, hostel bunks and hard bed ends, we protect the hill and pass. Suck in this breath, you dead, banging deadwood white ant, festa cross and sat, soz he left Tuesday early‑ish, reip specs, fex reddits and live. The Brev said, sweet Merideth — march with us from bottom steps, bags and pipes at 432, into the black‑bright war of you. Shoulder to shoulder, Bottom Steps, seraph ranks with claymore light, bagpipes calling, calling, slow march into the howling night. Angels drum with bone‑white sticks, timed to heart and second hand, Brave‑heart hymns in iron picks ring off cold rails and highland land. The light will warm us, clothed in brightness over blood‑wet earth, wishing you in whispers, through teeth and tartan, Holy Life will soon be yours when drums and pipes are calling, forever the brightness and fulfilled yearning— Breathe in the peat and heather, sweet Merideth.