Insteada liviní on my own
I coulda been a system clone
With two point four kids and a wife,
A mortgage and a job for life;
I coulda slaved from nine to five
And swallowed all that Tory jive
About how everyone must work,
And anyone who dontís a jerk.
I coulda lived with discipline
Believiní anarchyís a sin,
Insteada Descartesí Demon, I
Could wallow in the Christian lie.
I coulda had a gauge of wealth,
Certificate of mental health,
And all the other fuckiní crap
That goes with the conformist trap.
I coulda learned to socialise,
Be nice to people I despise,
Called scum heroes, and judges sir,
Crawled like a snake, cowed like a cur,
I coulda said my daily prayers
And blissfully been unawares
Of those who organise the race
That keeps us suckers in our place.
I coulda, but I didnít.
So what have I to show instead?
Bad reputation, screwed up head,
A niche on skid row, well, almost:
Unwelcome guest and no oneís host,
A life of hurt and misery,
A man nobody wants to see,
But pain like mine Iíd rather bear
Than your euphoric fucking air.
Booze, cash or God, I worship none,
What vexes youís what I call fun,
I dress the way I want to dress,
Donít rush about, so donít feel stress;
Thereís plenty things give me the hump,
But I jump when I want to jump;
A filofax I do not crave;
Iím lean, but youíre a fattened slave.
So go ahead, work overtime,
Choke on your poxy gin and lime,
Serve the machine, do as youíre told,
And win yourself a crock of gold,
But when decades hence youíre retired
To count the spoils you so desired,
Ask yourself: Do you give a toss
For this vacuous dung and dross?
Then look back at the time thatís gone:
The senseless things that turned you on;
Your whole life has been work and drink:
I couldnít live with such a stink,
Because although Iíve got sod all
Iím at no manís or viceís call,
And pain like mine Iíd rather bear
Than your euphoric, fucking air.
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