There are no poets
Those that sank died
Those that swam work in advertising and lunch in Soho
You know that new hummous place on Wardour St
It's wonderful
But there are those who neither sank nor swam
Those who ran
The imbecilles
It can't be
I'm not skinny
I'm not 30
What do you want of me
Should I raise the dead like Ryan Adams
What a fake
Or should I create myself
Egg shaped
A world
Poverty
Broke
Who is knocking at my door
Is it my mum
She'd like to help
So would I
But I couldn't help myself out of a wet cunt
I'd rather die than admit failure
Yet to fail is so easy it must be natural
Who pulls the strings
People keep telling me it's me
And yet it is me
I ran a race against myself
How could i win
Poor fool
Poor me
Rather the devil on a certainty
Than the lord on a long shot
But then again I always make the wrong choices
So perhaps the Lord
What a strange world where the Lord is hushed
Spoken in low tones
Does he care
I've walked with him and caring is not what he does
Neither noticing
Those who notice are really the lost ones
Those with time
Those in time
How I hate the dead
Why not
They're all dead
I saw you sleep
Yet you would have us all think you never rested from your work
But
I saw you you sleep
Yes you
Resting on your duties
Little know it all
you can sleep now
It's over