Young Robert clambered from his bed,
This bonny boy, the town smack head.
He drew the curtains, struggling to find his wits,
The death of his brother had made him turn to this, in bits.
Dressed in clothes not changed for a week,
He slowly wandered down the street
Looking for things to rob, dear and cheap.
As he pondered the Edinburgh crowd,
He began to think all were sheep
Stuck in societies pleasures, but little did they know
of the everlasting euphoria that comes with narcota
In the godforsaken rain, wind or snow.
And young Robert, or Bobby to his mates
Was nothing but doomed, funded by the state.
