Is it just the clothes that you are under?
Or is it your lack of posture and lack of personal portrayal
That weighs you down,  
The judging glances, and the marks your leggings make on your thighs
Its no wonder you are drinking your self to sleep,
Stuck in a rut, that no one sees you’re in
Just counting the cans and emptying the ashtrays
As your liver shrivels up and your lungs turn into charcoal
Spending your days in a lightless basement suite
Listening to British gentlemen, safe and tucked away,
From all the horrors of this crazed world of life and lust
All the sins I have committed leave me stained
With redden lips and a headache,
This glass of liquid ***** my memory and me