Its ten past four in the morning
my minds like a dynamo just wont give in
maybe the lights are to bright
maybe its the amphetamine that i took last night
i havn't moved for an hour
this attic is cold an smells strongly of turpentine
but i dont mind
cause am hoping the fumes might eventually send me to sleep
my eyes are blood shot from three days of nights,
of just staring through walls and refilling my cup to the top
with cheap whiskey which says on the label
distilled in kentucky but bottled in birkenhead
this kind of thing makes me smile to myself
everyday when the worlds turn you around myself
its all in good time, but all in my hell
its all in good time, all in my hell
just sit here drifting, thru the realms of the sick,
be unwell, am on tender hooks,
and am looking quite pale but still got my fashion good looks
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