This Is Us

A fine dust blows round at my feet
and slowly circles round to meet
a crumpled paper frayed to bones
that lives its life upon the streets.

A cocky man grim leers at me
and laughs as I shift up to meet
his wrinked mug and beer-stained breath
that I scrounge my memories to delete.

A pint of piss costs less than bread.
I'll pour the liquid on my head
and dance like I don't have a job,
then pull my mate, she's just as dead.

A grand old town, its folk shut up,
its affect flowing from a cup
of grandiose haught and pride of show
that's lost in piles of junk and muck.

See all the skanks line round the wall
to bust their chops in Satan's hall.
Their lads surround a mate of theirs
to slay his corpse and bear his pall.

A pint of piss costs less than bread
so pour the liquid on your head
and dance like you don't have a job
then puke up blood that Jesus bled.

You pass a homeless man outside
who shakes his head as you start to slide
upon the slabs that spit and sperm
choose, over dustbins, to reside.

And when you finally get home,
where covers drape your weary bones,
you'll laugh and howl about that time
some tit was dancing on his own.

A pint of piss costs less than bread
so pour the liquid on your head
and dance like you don't have a job
then go to work, pretend you're dead.