Sunday, 25 March 2012

A kind of dry wit

No place is more evident of a changing face
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I was king of the night...I knew it only too well
But now I too conform to a changing face

I knew it only too well
'til bang, new years and the strike of the bell
I turned old, or grey,
And new years day found a change in ways
From king of the night to a participant of day

I was only learning, and I fell of my imaginary perch
Debauchery's not religion...nights not a church
Now Sunday morning I'm awake when the church bell chimes
But all Sunday morning means is Sunday Times
Instead of the beat of a drum and a mouth full of grime

It's nice to wake with a mouth still moist
And participate through my own free choice
I jump out of bed and without even yawning
I nip outside and participate in morning

I zigzag down dodging the past nights puke points
And arrive in town slightly smug with my viewpoint
With a clear head there's room for inspiration
Without fear of failure for my aspirations

My sheets don't stink, there's no sick on my shoe
My heart still beats at a normal rate
I'm not fiddling around with a pocketful of change
Stomping around in a world of pain
Cursing my choice to live life lagging in the bus lane

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