You fill up a whisky glass
You look down at the floor
You prolifically take steps forward
In the hope that the joy will return
You snooze in the backseat while so-and-so drives you around
Taking a moment to rediscover your roots you channel Bob Monkhouse or who was it. Hopefully you’ll play your cards right. It’s coming up ace high. And you’re ace high. Flying high but contending with birds and other air traffic.
The sun promises you all the best of health but poisons your skin and burns out your eyes.
You don’t help yourself.
This is not a message.
You already know it says the TV
It’s hard to know whose spacing is whose. Like where you’re meant to park or where you’re supposed to drive. Why on left? Why on the right?
It’s all rules rules rules rope to hang yourself by
And I suppose that makes you sad
And you let the tears fall into the bottomless empty cup.