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so we’re heading somewhere, we’ll get there slow if
the crowds of anal-retentives grow. you’re on the
telephone, i hear you delegating call centre workers in
a condescending tone. and i’m vile and i’m broke and I
left my pans to soak, said you didn’t notice, you
noticed! expect to ascend an apex of accomplishment,
i haven’t time for, i’ve got no time for...
those girls say they’re insane it’s quite clear that
they’re not, as everything seems plain we sink blue
drinks and stumble home...
terra firma soft to touch, languid tarmac covered up,
they call it progress, i call them thugs who take their
demons out to lunch…
those girls say they’re insane, it’s quite clear that
they’re not, all those bands with boring names the
towns pitchforks are quite blunt. two old drunks fall in
love but never spill a drop, there’s mild glee at this
house party as someone takes a piss down the
again, there’s no plan, as we just sit back and wait,
and this malaise is everything you hate