Smoking with pages from a French phrase book,
wearing clothes with holes in, covered in muck.
They say you make your own luck,
just need to stick at getting unstuck.
I just keep getting poked with a stick,
well, i'm now gonna grab it, snap it in two,
along with your balls and dick.
All sounds intense, but life is,
The Man aims and fires,
get covered in jizz.
Constant wiping away to see,
keep forgetting who i wanna be.
I'm know i'm getting there,
and i know alotta people care,
i'm just my own worst enemy,
these thoughts and feelings are deadly, need therapy.
Like poison from a deadly spider,
i know Britannia too well though,
sometimes i don't mind her.
Now i think i've had enough,
need some time to vent,
seem to find it hard enough, just to pay the rent.
High prices here, nearly four quid for a beer,
it's like The Man is trying to fuck us hard in the rear.
Talking of rear, my rent's in arrears,
should value money more,
like people and their cars and careers.
I just like chilling on this boat,
i know i really should vote,
just don't seem worth it,
same old piss, wind and bullshit.