Hire me, hire me,
I have four A-levels and an Arts degree.
I have little experience or transferable skills,
but i'll gladly complain for free.

I'm educated. EH-DUE-KATE-ED! I'll scream in my head,
as I make your coffees and your teas.
My intelligence is far to great,
your menial work is just not for me.

I belong to greater things, I believe.
an author, a politician, a diplomat maybe?
or even, only if I'm lucky
this twenty-five a year scheme in marketing!

So please hire me, oh please!
I'm poor, desperate and my love-life is in decline.
The streets are no place for a graduate,
with a face, quite like mine.

I can't really say i'm sorry
and I can't say I ever will
it really isn't because I'm not
but because you avoid me still

But what would I say if I could?
I was so scared and I was so young
I had the perfect soul next to me
my only option was to run

As with most speeches I make
I failed to make much sense
my mouth and brain don't share a link
so I never said what I meant.

so in verse I'll try and send a message,
something i failed to say
you were the one to spend my life with
I had to run away.

My home, dank, dark, and grey
its schools that ebb and sway
its heart where the demons play
my home, dank, dark and grey

My home, sober, soiled, and tired
its tastes dull but acquired
its veins electrically wired
my home, sober, soiled, and tired

My home, the stoic jungle of stone
a concrete empire with no throne
where everyone feels alone
my home, the stoic jungle of stone.

We were such a thrilling sound
founded on such stable ground
our lights so bright and bold
fade to sombre, sober gold