Always at the foot of the photograph — that’s me there
Snug as a thug in a mugshot pose
Owner of this corner and not much more
Still these days I’m better placed to get my just rewards
I’ll pound out a tune and very soon
I’ll have too much to say and a dead stupid name
CHORUS
Though I ought to be learning I feel like a veteran
Of «Oh I like your poetry but I hate your poems»
Calendars crumble I’m knee deep in numbers
Turned 21, I’ve twist, I’m bust and wrong again
Rubbing shoulders with the sheets till two
Looking at my watch and I’m half-past caring
In the lap of luxury it comes to mind
Is this headboard hard? Am I a lap behind?
But to face doom in a sock-stenched room all by myself
Is the kind of fate I never contemplate
Lots of people would cry though none spring to mind
Know what it’s like
To sigh at the sight of the first quarter of life?
Every stopped to think and found out nothing was there?
They laugh to see such fun
Playing Blind Man’s Bluff all by myself
And they’re chanting a line from a nursery rhyme
«Ba Ba Bleary Eyes — Have you any idea?»
The calendar’s cluttered with days that are numbered