Posthumous Spreadsheets

And I consume myself in a blank screens dullness Post-adolescent, I'm not listening I'm waiting to speak It consumes me in my wholeness You say something I'll forget it almost instantly It's how it is and how it's always been Oh shoot me It dissolves me like the monasteries Hell-bent on searching for a place to go with free entry Did monasteries let you in for free? That doesn't matter when I am down here And you are up there sitting in your episcopal see And there's no place I would rather be And that's my problem, I'm too nostalgic If that's the problem, its kind of tragic I guess you could say that nostalgia Is self indulgence, or overthinking I'm sentimental and always will be But for the wrong thing, I'd sack the monasteries Tear down the oak beams, plow up the estates Until it's too late, is it too late, too late? Revolutionary sentiment Like a walking A-Level textbook Left at the wayside and shifting rightwards Left with nothing but the hope that maybe one day I'll be Well regarded for my posthumous spreadsheets Respected unconditionally for my tasteful formatting Widespread validation for my data validation I'll be lauded across the nation For my humble contribution to the field The sinking feeling about the curtain call The burning dread it's been for nothing at all Realising that I'm losing my touch The bank is empty and it's running on luck I start to feel this ain't a chorus at all Just a melodramatic trail of thought In the end I could just move home to my parents Maybe then I'll stop complaining when it's OK, OK Aspiration, I went and tried it Felt like a tourist, felt like an expat Without the money, the wife and air miles To say that's not me, is that denial? So did a spin class, I got protein shook Like a walking bad self-help book But after two weeks, back on the crate And now it's too late, is it too late, too late? Future prospects beyond the pale Dream of Whitehall, nightmare of sales Apocalyptic post-London visions When I'm forty I'll say "how did I get here?" When I quit my city job of limitless promotion Earned a lot of money so that I could sack it all in Draw a sinking line in the forever sinking sand And tour the South of England with the original line-up of the band The sinking feeling about the curtain call The burning dread it's been for nothing at all Realising that I'm losing my touch The bank is empty and it's running on luck I start to feel this ain't a chorus at all Just a melodramatic trail of thought But in the end, if you don't stop me I could, I could go on