Sooner I will come back
And irritate who I am
Some successful demon,
Individual afternoons empty rooms dim romantic light
Tell your sister
Its pointless trying
Tell your brother
I’m not even trying;
Lying down forever
And your spine fastens to the ground;
Lying in bed is torture
And these gorgeous horror evenings
Staring out the magazine window
Portraying a groovy book of sexy
Morose celebrity prostitutes
That hardly practise their sayings like:
Good game, that,
And me, practically born in a tunnel
Because evry place I’ve been
I’ve seen not even everything
But something lying down forever,
Evry polluted morning smells of fireworks a terrible aroma
Evry polluted woman giving me the eye
The body the look the practise turn around
And get –

Practically that tunnel
And strain and strain,
You see, no one dies until someone dies
And then all you get is the phone ringing
Wailing bawling like a baby;
And I sat down and wondered about this strain
Upon my perfect/imperfect vision –
‘Cause colours seem to change,
The high street gets taller like New York
And I close all the blinds in the house
And write these things to you
So you know that there’s been a death in the family.