. We might as well be shearing sheep instead of sweating over things we want to change, but want to keep
it's in fukin sane and that's like being in fukin London.
the poet a complicated halfwit tails off into a distance that was never there and shares a memory,
Paul, an old friend was diagnosed with something terminal and his end was nigh, he flew off to Spain and said, 'if this is life I'm not doing it again' but he died in Bromley by Bow I know I was there.
We're all sleepers frightened of bogeymen.
What is it that stops You from smashing them windows? is it the old biddy who watches everything and will tell your Ma it was you? that she saw you?
You're either class acts or brass tacks it's in the way you take the breakage that defines you and not the last thing you see before the night closes in,
remember when you're shearing sheep you are just looking at chaos in the cosmos and there's **** all you can do about that.