Mad Dogfish; the ones that got away

The travelling gene will not move from the helix, won't be expunged from the code. We will always want to live in Deadwood and be drunk on the frontier of civilisation, in places where thugs, football casual hooligans, and deadbeats roam free, while the measly few chatterbox whippets of future planning knock together their banks, post-offices, and hardware stores. The ruts are sloppy and deep, the whisky is third rate, but it doesn't matter, because we're free. Free from the nine-to-five slough toward Gomorrah executed by the filth-laded mules of straightheadedness and sloth. The babies are gurgling in the treetops, like little beans, and the turrets hold princesses waiting to be freed like butterflies and beetles entrapped in the buckets and glass globes of teenage boys.
Buses trundle the boulevards and the trees are unidentifiable, the denizens of the sidewalks skid on innumerable oil-slicks and rotten fruits, and the traffic sounds like a roaring behemoth. When we hit the stadia we halt and sniff the air, as it curdles our brains with its gorgeous cold hydrocarbon merging with crisps, beer, and freshly cut grass, right there in the bowl of theatrical magnificence called Camp Nou or even Foxboro.
Be of stout mind my sons, and don't drop the soap, as it might slip away and you'll be filthy thereafter. When you lie to yourselves about where you've been and why, the answer will rain down in indecipherable slang from a great height in your unconscious; you are running away from being a human being, you are chafing at the doorway to mortality, and they'll never take you alive...