Good theory never degrades,
Just kind of hangs about the party
Until it forgets everybody’s name.
As Pontius Pilate used to say,
“Rome wasn’t built through good intentions,
But a bucket and *****.”
Life is full of rain. I got lucky.
Twenty percent of men and women
Would probably **** me;
Given the right light on the right night,
Or a deficit of able-bodied men after forty years of war.
Took my winning ticket to the bookies and said:
“Pay up or everyone in this room will be dead.”
With £20 in my back pocket,
I was escorted from the premises in a zipped up bag.
Actors, make hay.
Actors, make money.
Speak out where you’re safe.
Pretend you’re funny.
I wouldn’t share a word with you on a good day,
Let alone an abattoir floor.
I sold myself out.
I took the money.
I’d do it all again,
Just need people to trust me.
My friends, my colleagues, my own kin,
There’s a price for them all.
Grudges make men.
Grudges make great stories.
Give me a petty rivalry,
Less death and glory.
It’s a circus of ******,
From head to toe.
Life is full of rain. People bore me.
I sleep upon the shoulders
Of the giants who lived and died before me.
And if you have problems with my life’s work;
Well, what can you do?
Actors, get in league.
Actors, take trophies.
Nod sagely at the in-memoriam.
Imagine your face on that screen.
We climbed out of the sea
But then the sea climbed up
To claim us all.
I was born a freak child.
No-one saw me.
Physiotherapists tried to provide
A viable future in the workplace for me.
They’ve been telling me that I’ve failed
Since I was eleven years old.
Life is full of rain. Love’s a rocket.
Sleeping beauty’s filtered face
In a light-up locket.
I remember her the way she would have wanted,
Apart from me.
Actors, concede defeat.
There’s as much truth in pantomime
As there is in Debussy.
If I sound crude, If I sound bitter,
Just let me hold your award.