its a den; 25 a side all in, next goal wins- eating with your sticky fingers off tin foil, whinging about the walk to whitechapel, cowboy bots rubbing against the heel of your foot, wishing you were far away, rememebering the look he gave, forgetting the look she gave,
being so paranoid you stay in day after day after day,
the last time you saw sunlight was the 27th of never, when you walked past the buzz of the city, wishing you could slip into the mode, knowing its beyond you,
and you'll never hold clought in their eyes.
hoping your mother will call, when you sit gazing alone at the window, and stare .. trying to rekindle the romance you once felt when that song came on.
Getting your head round the opening barres of the hit you claimed it was but isnt but you still told everyone anyway, 'its a number one'..
the numbness fades away, the clouds lift, and your inspirations re-ignite, and burn all night and all day and society half-accepts you for the effort you finally put back in.
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