|
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 21, I've twist, I'm bust and wrong again |
|
Rubbing shoulders with the sheets 'til 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 21, 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 21, 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 |