Poison and old spice
Chanel
smells quite nice
but somebody's trainers
stink.

Thus day begins
and the corporation
wins,
the windchill factor's
minus two.

I always come through it
get down and get to it
make do and mend
the same as us all.

It's the underground life on
an underground train
where no one can hear you
as you scream out your pain
where we all carry on as if
nothing is wrong.

Reaching each station
I review my situation
it's all looking horribly grim

The corporation win or lose,
the welfare state's not what
I'd chose and the zero hour
gives a bit more power to
those
that would tie us to poverty.

My taxes pay for a  fellow employee
to stay in low paid employment as indeed his pay for me,

This day begins

do as you do unto those
and those will do as you do
unto them
and then do some more.

Damage is a by-product
of being ******
and I ain't talking about
the bedroom

and gloom, don't forget
the gloom when darkness
looms up before you
and you take a quick look
behind you
because you hear the footsteps
which move out of time
and you know they're not yours
so therefore must be mine
and you fear,
but fear's just a raindrop that
dries on your skin,
it leaves no reminder
unlike him just behind you.

Push,
they insist
and the baby is born
and a new son is kissed
by the father.

I hear the woodpecker
'Black and Decker'
tapping to come in
and the nails are being
sharpened to slide
through someone's,..

..kinfolk joke about the olden days,
but the olden days are now.

I am trying not to sleep as much
as what I used to do
and in trying this to stay awake my
thoughts return to you
and in the thoughts alone a thousand
days flash fast before my eyes
the screaming wheels and
that's how torture feels
when no one hears your cries.

It's not the nights spent in taverns outside of the town or the days spent in wasting my time nor the ***** and limes I have drunk with those fine friends of mine
to tell you the truth I'm not sure if it matters

the hours roll on to the days
and they're gone
and the weeks?
well the weeks
linger
but then they're
gone too
and the years
poke through
and the taverns don't matter
even if I remember
but the fine friends
are ghosts now
who don't let
me forget.

Remember that look?
the one that said 'up yours'
and '*******'
I do.

I carry that look in a Filofax
in case of panic attacks,

in a mirror at home I look
again at the look
and remember what it took
to give it.

Nothing is thrown out or
given away
especially that look,
it might come in handy
one day.

Blunt

but no more axes to grind
I have what I need
and if I need
I will find.

heartbreaking really so
deal me a hand from the
Devil's pack
give me four aces
and let me move back
to a time before
when I could see.

First the tap, tap, tapping
then the violins cuts in
the piano starts laughing
and the keys begin

let's play.

Music for the tired and
music for the strong,
for the song that
carries on
long after the sounds
have gone

let's play.

'Spare some change,
can you spare a
copper or two for
a tea,
can you?

the streets are full
the beggars with their
operas
pull the punters in.

They'll wear away the pavements
if they stay much longer.

these
are the new age living monuments
to the times
in which we live
and so we give,

we feed them
because we need them
they remind us of
what's behind us
and spur us on.

It's a
business,
but it's not
our business,
we have business
of our own.

Anyways thank God for Saturdays
because I've finally understood
that it ain't no bleedin' good
to have the five days beforehand
if you ain't got nothing planned
for the weekend.

I lean towards sedentary
and watch a documentary
it seems to float the boat I'm on,

then go on to a discotheque,
don't dance because
I'll break my neck
but
I have eyes and watch it all,

the boat I'm on becomes a wreck
and Sunday finds me beached,
at least I reached out and I understood
it ain't no never any good
if you ain't got nothing planned.

I'm not alive now
although I survive,
how
I could not say.

when every day is
just
another way to die
I won't try
to live.

but it's alright
I can cope

the night though,
devoid of hope
I know it
well.

Sweat
wet
hot and sticky,
a salt lick
on a dry day
or
have it your own way
and call it a
tidal wave.