|
Always at the foot |
|
Of the photograph |
|
That's me there |
|
Snug as a thug |
|
In a mugshot pose |
|
A foul mouthed rogue |
|
Owner of this corner |
|
And not much more |
|
Still these days |
|
I'm better placed |
|
To get my just rewards |
|
I'll pound out a tune |
|
And very soon |
|
I'll have too much to say |
|
And a dead stupid name |
|
Though I ought to be learning |
|
I feel like a veteran |
|
Of 'Oh, I like your poetry |
|
But I hate your poems' |
|
Calendars crumble |
|
I'm knee deep in numbers |
|
I've turned twenty one, I've twist |
|
I'm bust and wrong again |
|
Rubbing shoulders |
|
With the sheets till two |
|
Looking at my watch |
|
And I'm half past caring |
|
In the lap of luxury |
|
It comes to mind |
|
Is this headboard hard? |
|
Am I a lap behind? |
|
But to face doom |
|
In a sock stenched room |
|
All by myself |
|
Is the kind of fate |
|
I never contemplate |
|
Lots of people would cry |
|
Though none spring to mind |
|
Though I ought to be learning |
|
I feel like a veteran |
|
Of 'Oh, I like your poetry |
|
But I hate your poems' |
|
Calendars crumble |
|
I'm knee deep in numbers |
|
I've turned twenty one, I've twist |
|
I'm bust and wrong again |
|
Know what it's like |
|
To sigh at the sight |
|
Of the first quarter of life? |
|
Ever stopped to think |
|
And found out |
|
Nothing was there? |
|
They laugh to see such fun |
|
I'm playing blind man's bluff |
|
All by myself |
|
And they're chanting |
|
A line from a nursery rhyme |
|
'Ba ba bleary eyes |
|
Have you any idea?" |
|
Years of learning |
|
I must be a veteran |
|
Of 'Oh, I like your poetry |
|
But I hate your poems' |
|
And the calendar's cluttered |
|
With days that are numbered |
|
I've turned twenty one, I've twist |
|
I'm bust and wrong again |
|
Ought to be learning, twist |
|
I'm bust and wrong again |
|
Feel like a veteran, twist |
|
I'm bust and wrong again |
|
Calendar's cluttered |
|
With days that are numbered |
|
And I know what it's like |
|
To sigh at the sight |
|
Of the first quarter of life |
