TV Dinner

Hypothesise a hero's rise and teach them all to then despise

It is our way to make a king, romanticise how they begin

Fetishize their struggling, while all the while they're suffering

In every worming memory of what they truly are

The rigmarole, the tortured soul, the constant spin, the merry-go

Roundhouse-kick into the face, sheer loss of private space

The moths, the snakes, the tiny waist-coat tail riders suck the grace

And little colour out my face, the cancer in a padlock case

No one gets into my space

No one gets into my space

The market before anything

The darkest days are yet to sing

Like Winehouse, she was just a bairn

They love her now but bled her then

They reared me as a class clown

Grass-fed little cash cow

I cashed out, headed hell bound

And now they point and laugh

And no one gets into my space

No one gets into my space

Am I up to this?

Am I up to this?

Am I up to this?

No one gets in

I'll sell my story when it's true, I'll paint a pretty pic of you

I'll walk amongst the ones who walk and talk when I am born

I'm in the embryonic state, on borrowed time, I clean my plate

With a TV dinner I spectate, the fucks all gesticulate

The chip on shoulder pulsates, my hatred, it mutates

Posh cunt had me irate, he said, "We're all the same"

Are you wild? Do you have enemies? A start with no amenities?

A mark that bleeds a legacy? A spark without tuition fee?

A darkness that they envy? They frenzy to befriend me

But I know ye, you'll sell me, you'll sell me, you'll kill me

No one gets into my space

No one gets into my space

Am I up to this?

Am I up to this?

Am I up to this?

Am I up to this?

Am I up to this?

Am I up to this?

No one gets in

To my space