Sunday, 2 October 2011


All of the old parables are bleeding out of my nose,
and i'm pulling up my britches but i'm standing on my toes,
while we've cleaned out our old sofa, we set fire to the throw.
Flaking like chocolate frozen and supreme, its raining forked lightening
and I'm swimming upstream,
I've been sold old ideas, i've been told to go,
i'm lithe and i'm wily but i'm tired and i'm slow.

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