I may be just a partying sort of guy,
But that’s the sort of guy I want to be.
I intend to go down laughing when I die.

I like the ladies, that I won’t deny.
I give them what they want, and they like me
Because I’m such a partying sort of guy.

I make love, sleep, wake up, and then get high.
My days and nights are filled with revelry.
I know I’ll go down laughing when I die.

I wear the finest clothing I can buy
And drive the fastest cars you’ve ever seen
To prove I’m quite a partying sort of guy.

I never get depressed, I never cry,
But those who do have all my sympathy.
I’d rather go down laughing when I die.

So why are some committed to the lie
That life is hard? They must love misery.
Myself, I’ll be a partying sort of guy
Until I go down laughing, when I die.

Take me with you to your Atlantis
Where hues of blue glisten in noons
For eternity we embrace in its promise

Are days of sober in crystallic bliss
Are nights of glacial comfort under mystic lunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis

Wash me into a tender kiss
Too soft to be witnessed but the full moons
For eternity we embrace in its promise

Beyond boundaries of mortality at this
ocean, through the skies and dunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis

Volumes and arks fill up the abyss
with painted tales of Atlantic ruins
For eternity we embrace in its promise

When love dreamily left only to reminisce
as the ink of Plato seeped in tunes
Take me with you to your Atlantis
For eternity we embrace in its promise

How far must the honey bee roam
To find an elusive flower,
And return to his honeycomb?

How long must a tumbling stone
Through a lonely landscape scour,
To realize its conclusive home?

How many do their fate bemoan,
Amidst the dark and latent hours,
Staining tears upon their cheekbones?

How do those, resting on their thrones,
Convince all of their own power,
And feign to know all that which is known?

Do we have power all our own?
Our own reasons to scour?
How far ahead is our fate sewn?

Do we let ourselves be enthroned,
To be a humble wallflower?
Or do we let ourselves be flown,
Into a troublesome unknown?

Her love for me was mellow
Instead of feeling blues
I always felt yellow

She was a weird fellow
The portrait of me she drew
Her love for me was mellow

Every time she says hello
She doesn’t have a clue
I always felt yellow

She called me a marsh mellow
She said I’m her muse
Her love for me was mellow

I sniffed into her pillow
She smells like morning dew
I always felt yellow

Once again she said hello
Watched my heart flew
Her love for me was mellow
I always felt yellow

Strutting shoes in dust and spit
The boys make their way in scented air
This is home to the gravel pits

The intercity snakes with a thwack and a hiss
Cuts through the night without a care
Strutting shoes in dust and spit

Dead-dogs in bags and lean stray cats
Bashed old cars with their smashed glass glare
This is home to the gravel pits

Toking butts he smiles, so fit
through smoke with eyes that stir, arms bare
Strutting shoes in dust and spit

Then with cuts and grazes running, swinging sticks
A skirmish with the out-group, ****** warfare
This is home to the gravel pits

I stand here, look back and see it-
Turning for home in the cooled night air
Strutting shoes in dust and spit
This was home to the gravel pits

It’s an instinctive unease
A lone typewriter sits in neglect
The dust settles into the keys

Everything in the room seemed to freeze
Lost to time in a state of disconnect
It’s an instinctive unease

The lever not set to release
Leaving the platen a dented wreck
The dust settles into the keys

The air hangs stagnant, not so much as a breeze
Leaving the room stale and depressed
It’s an instinctive unease

Some long forgotten face left these
Unused ribbons of ink and stacks of papers forever unchecked
The dust settles into the keys

A scrapped song begging for a reprise
Or a manuscript destined for reject
It’s an instinctive unease
The dust settles into the keys

To my body I pay this fee,
To feel the sparks of passion again.
Just to feel this free,

How often do I end up in Hampstead with a muddy knee
For stranger men to inflict their pleasure and pain
To my body? I pay this fee,

A penance of sorts, for this want and need
For a simple solace my body can contain.
Just to feel this free

I have travelled across many a country and sea
For a taste of pleasure in *** mundane.
To my body I pay this fee,

The exchange of bodies, the currency
Of touches fleeting, grasping, with no aim.
Just to feel this free

I have made my body into a sightsee,
A virile burnt pier ***** in the deep sea. These sightseers I enchain
To my body. They too pay this fee,
Just to feel this free.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re depressed,
Caught in the throng of endless days,
Or maybe it’s just 2020, an undesirable guest,

With seconds flowing like minutes, and hours dressed
Like seas of months. When you sit on these docks and bays,
Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re depressed,

With all these readings of one too many devil’s advocates pressed
To talk about the latest killings. “Maybe it’s wrong”, he says,
“Or maybe it’s just”. 2020, this undesirable guest,

Has been a year and a decade and a century of unrest
For the wicked and the meek, and while no one knows who’ll inherit the earth these days,
Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re depressed

Or if it’s just growing pains of the oppressed
Waiting for a piece of kingdoms promised, with a gaze
On a maybe. But it’s just 2020, an undesirable guest

A boardgame with no winners, a quest
Where everyone loses with no grace or praise.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re depressed,
Or maybe it’s just 2020, the most undesirable guest.