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