There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge-
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids are on the scrounge.
the atmosphere is thick with queer
Simon Cowells on the telly,
Tom Jones's bones are
th' microphones n
his bowels are
Ooozzing smelly.
through atrophied
arseholes who choose
between iconicity
n the domesticity blues.
There's a Sofa in my kitchen
and a Bread-bin in the lounge
the missus won't stop *******
and the kids - are on the scrounge.

Simon he his happy and his very glad
his girlfriend she gave birth now he his a dad
he has baby boy and a ***** he must change
early morning feeding to him it will be so strange
now he must spend his millions not keep it to himself
on his baby son he must spend his wealth
and has the years go bye and he begins to grow
he will be a mogul on some pop star show

I freeze
My smile says, you got me again but inside, your words have gutted me,
Like walking into a room full of Simon Cowells,
And losing my voice
Yes, in fact
You took my voice from me
This game we play where we both bear our fangs for alpha-female in our sick, twisted trio
But the difference is this
I do not make the haughty stabs that you inflict upon others
Flicking your tongue like a silver blade, and I, your waiting victim,
Am here, readily awaiting your torture because I don't know how to make other friends
So I let the violence continue
Maybe my ex was right about you
Maybe you're the reason why if it weren't for my hemophobia, my wrists I would slice,
But pills suffice
My smile says, you got me again.

-E (c) 2017