And the Lord said, “Get thee bent!”
Here your empty money’s all spent
Among the **** and ashes of last month’s rent,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
I’m a bit of a disco dancer,
Frequent romancer
That half pint, any change? Bit of a chancer.
I would read her star sign
But I know its cancer,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No easy escape,
From that ****** that vapes,
On the bar stool under the gym.
He eyes up the napes,
Of the barmaid’s shapes
Who looks like that girl in his ***** tapes,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No crisp fiver,
Just her salvia,
Dripping from your lips and gubbins.
Behind the red eyes and fag-end nubbins,
You love those filthy, back street rub-ins.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
You just go home,
Another sexless twilight roam,
You smash up some middle class **** called Jerome.
Hair full sweat, you’d **** for a comb,
It is me or the ***** or just a syndrome
Face full of holes like honeycomb,
You just can’t write anymore of this poem,
And think to yourself “well, when in Rome”
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
And the Lord said, “Get thee bent!”
Here your empty money’s all spent
Among the **** and ashes of last month’s rent,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
I’m a bit of a disco dancer,
Frequent romancer
That half pint, any change? Bit of a chancer.
I would read her star sign
But I know its cancer,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No easy escape,
From that ****** that vapes,
On the bar stool under the gym.
He eyes up the napes,
Of the barmaid’s shapes
Who looks like that girl in his ***** tapes,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No crisp fiver,
Just her salvia,
Dripping from your lips and gubbins.
Behind the red eyes and fag-end nubbins,
You love those filthy, back street rub-ins.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
You just go home,
Another sexless twilight roam,
You smash up some middle class **** called Jerome.
Hair full sweat, you’d **** for a comb,
It is me or the ***** or just a syndrome
Face full of holes like honeycomb,
You just can’t write anymore of this poem,
And think to yourself “well, when in Rome”
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
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