[PLEASE NOTE THAT BANDCAMP DOES NOT PRESERVE ALL TEXT FORMATTING. These lyrics look better in the CD sleeve.]
Everybody else is going somewhere;
I, however, have nowhere to go.
If you were to ask me what my plan is:
“I don’t know!”. I don’t know.
Those who won't employ me must be laughing
when they read the answers I provide;
it’s my epitaph I'm autographing:
“I don't know”. Where’s my guidebook?
Don’t quote me your scriptures,
they’re just pretty pictures which
offer me no comfort;
they may work for some, but not
me down in this ditch.
Caught between the cutting and the thrusting,
reasoning that neither holds appeal,
I admit I struggle with adjusting
to a world far from ideal…
I can offer zero
in a number-cruncher’s view;
am I doomed to follow
lifelong timecard-punchers who
also did not know?
Shiftless drifters graft and grift for food.
Aimless parents spawn a gormless brood:
Hopeless heaps of sleepless worker bees,
‘feckless’ families’ facsimiles.
Shiftless drifters graft and grift for food.
Aimless parents spawn a gormless brood:
Hopeless heaps of sleepless worker bees,
‘feckless’ families’ facsimiles.
Shiftless drifters graft and grift for food.
Aimless parents spawn the gormless.
On and up rich go, cups overflowing,
Strong and tall, secure and always knowing
breeding means an easy life awaits them,
cushioned by an underclass that hates them...
Mother popped me out without a blueprint,
father never handed me a script,
neither had a clue of what to do, hint or idea;
they were tight-lipped about the truth:
I’d reach the end of youth
no wiser as an early riser,
yielding the result - I’m
legally adult but
scraping by in apiaries...
Why did they keep their line alive -
to send their children to the hive?
I have no wisdom to bequeath,
just ugly skin and crooked teeth...
Should I be pushed or simply jump,
or waste away, a worthless rump?
How else can I escape this dump?
In a way, I pity the careerist:
driven by his greed, not by his needs.
I would take whichever exit's nearest;
I don't know where it leads to…
Capital is nothing but a concept,
poverty is positively real;
money is a myth and should be gone, wept
for by those who cannot feel…
No-one is rewarded
after death but sordid worms;
what one sows in Autumn
can't be reaped post-mortem, so
live life by these terms:
if we make it nice,
Earth is paradise.
Those on breadlines work to shorter deadlines,
too preoccupied to self-reflect.
Their deaths seldom make the solemn headlines,
nor command widespread respect.
Perspicacious people ponder purpose;
lives end in pursuit of what they mean.
Parents burp us, children will usurp us;
should not good happen between?
Lowbrows in low situations tend to be low-hanging fruit;
low status, low expectations and low self-esteem to boot.
And how the high stick the boot in! High-handed, high-hatting hordes,
high-minded and highfalutin, on high, claim the high rewards.
In 2019, I was in Salisbury and attended the Alphabet Business Convention without knowing any artist. Lost Crowns was my favourite band that played there. Pablo P.
