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What a letdown |
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I was convinced that I'd be living in hotels and breaking into houses by now. |
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I was under the impression that I'd be partying in Rio on yachts with my white suit on |
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And soft-permed women in chiffon and lycra. |
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When I was 6 I blew out all the candles but the machine gun and motor bike have yet to appear. |
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Every day I check for my super power or special ability, but it's still in the post. |
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I know it is. |
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And every day I try to use the force, and the belief that I can fly will never leave. |
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I must be an undercover spy, disguised as "my life". |
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I must be. |
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Just a little bit longer and then I can go home and reap the rewards. |
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It must be so obvious though. Surely I can't be that good at my job as this all looks fake and wrong and cheap and shallow. |
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Or maybe I'm too good? |
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Anyway, not long now and then it's back to the real life |
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Of the yachts and the night stars |
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And summer youth longing romance. |
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Hey, I'm sorry you're dead |
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And I'm sorry that I missed Bowie's changes. |
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I stumbled upon him dancing with his red shoes on |
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And dismissed him as a cunt. |
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Dancing to thought forms made true when he turned the world from black and white. |
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Let me sing about the hell you're in |
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So it'll take me out of my life |
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Let me shout of bonds and walls and thorns |
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I can kick you while I'm down |
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I'll have to paint the most horrendous colours |
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To cover up my favourite chord |
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Knowing my luck I'll be the first not to die |
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My own striving for perfection and goodness flanks me |
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And laughs at the failure that I am from his dizzy heights |
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I'll never make it up there to become the real me. |
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Everything's wrong |
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And it keeps getting worse |
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You said it's just a product of aging |
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But that's not true |
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It's really all getting worse |
