Where can I find myself, hanging around?
In my bedroom, in my house, 80 doors down,
lazing about, snoring, horny, til the evening from the morning,
Im yawning, boring, im boring, sometimes not if Ive found a fag, shouted at the tories, same old bastards, new news story, maybe they’re just tryna be helpful after bein dealt a full plate of shit, sit down, shut up, smoke ya fag, your nans a slag and so your dad, nah my old man used to sell the stocks of a bank, oh right fair enough so did mine
Do u mind (i dont care) if I just say that if I hear the words “I love her aesthetic” one more time im gna take it as a sign that the end is as good as nigh or maybe I’ll just sigh and get on with life, dont know, dont know anything apart from what is right and wrong, actually nah I got that wrong I dont know whats right from my left, left wing, lets sing a crap pop sing about the poor, okay sure, why? Cos they’re crying and so are people in africa, no freaking way thats terrible, I know, bloody awful. Why dont we have any jam? This toast is boring with margarine for fuck sake, by gods grace, take me away from this place, from this plate full of buttered bread, my scrambled eggs and head, my ugly head, my pretty face, when will this end? Not quite yet cos I wanna say before I forget that I wanna kiss a girl really hard on the lips and sometimes I look at the stars and the way they pinprick the black with light or the way a spider spins its web so perfectly and meticulously with such a small brain or when someone cries at a beautiful song, it makes me feel so small and so powerful at the same time, so happy to be a human built from a complex and dense soup of pain and joy and vice and virtue and so wonderfully insignificant at the same, right all done now, see you later, bye bye


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