When dancing, lost in techo trance, arms flailing, gawky Bez, then find you snagged on frowns, and slowly it dawns, you're jazzing to the bleep tone of a life support machine that marks the steady fading of your day old baby daughter. And when midnight sirens lead to blue flash road mash, stretchers, covered heads and slippy red macadam, and find you creeping 'neath the blankets, to snuggle close a mangle bird, hoping you soon too will be freezer drawed. Then welcome. Mmm, ooh chemotherapy wig. Welcome. In Jam, Jam, Jam, Jam, Jaaaaam.
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