With the down I've been edited out,
I don't fit in this place anymore,
shoved from pillar to pillar and many times the imaginary killer in me has almost but not quite broken free.

Edited out and the programme goes out without me, it means nothing to me I'm not there can't you see it's the property of the B ****** C, and they tell me pay for a license, we are not free there's a fee, but me, I just tell 'em, open my big gob and yell at the studio bosses, tossers and dead losses, I wonder where did it go wrong?

The words of a song carry on my head , I open my eyes and wish the **** I was dead.

Going home now and somehow the words drift apart it's like someone is mending a once broken heart.

There's a method in the sadness,
We all reach the impasse where the sand waits for the looking glass,
I only reflect what's directly in front of me
And the B ****** C think what the **** is he on about, he's down on the East side of town.