歌词
Sneak off to the bushes they're getting off
No more liquor after Bossman's shuts
They've seen my fake, they think I'm nineteen
I'm fifteen, half baked and I've never been
Skip class to go to the cemetery with my friends
Smoked stinging Roger but we never saw the end
They tell me to think before I speak
I don't think I've ever thought at all
There's not enough days in a week
There's not enough numbers on the clock on the wall
Malice in my eyes on Horesden Hill
There's a sick kind of comfort, in making myself ill
Maxed out all my credit, on my zip card
Don't want to be pissed, on the bus home through Stonebridge Park
I never had a conscience
I never had a will
Wouldn't believe anyone loved me until
They surrender themselves, and went away
But I don't want to ruin the rest of your day
They tell me to think before I speak
I don't think I've ever thought at all
There's not enough days in a week
There's not enough numbers on the clock on the wall
Insecure, don't you know it?
Paranoid affective, beat poet
Drink you under the table in guilt
The lenses are off, and the sky has spilt
But I got out with the devil on my back
Pump up the world, return of the Mack
Life's your mixed grill, from the Hackney kebab shop
You're all on your way
I'm still waiting at the bus stop