Out There

Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners, and it ain't the fuckin' Cov
But he don't care

I take up the right, left view and the road in front too
And make up my mind, slide past you
There's always animals singing on everyday
No cars to drown the noise of this, yeas
Just queues for the clinic and six foot conversation
I don't wanna talk (innit?), I don't wanna talk to you, you cunt
You boring fucking cunt

Looked grim, then all of a sudden, I didn't give a shit about it and just became in
Got in with it, didn't touch anything
Just stared into a cold month with no people near it
I got stunned, but the ivy grew back nice on my back wall under that sun like, who was it?
Necking soft drinks in a Sydney Bar was just really good, won't it?
Planes flying dead low
It's so warm and people talking shit on Monday, not me though

Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners, and it ain't the fuckin' Cov
But he don't care

Why's this cunt got police protection?
He wasn't even running in the last election
I bet his partner at night says things like
"It's all for the good of your ideas"
Putting milk in the bowls of his children's inevitable tears every morning
Insane, watch 'em get depressed under the lockdown stress

Little slap headed cunt, get Brexit punched
Let's get Brexit fucked by an horse's penis until its misery splits
Ugly rich white men get shagged by it
Squeak

North London suburbs carry the pain in the bricks, religion and wheat
MP's popping up like newly planted council trees
Squeak, squeak

Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners, and it ain't the fuckin' Cov
But he don't care

Benches with RIP badges under swaying trees that kiss the energy damaged
People underneath, same old, same old, dug outs and old walks, footings, oh, fuck
Stories about the origins of buildings, slight hills, panic behind the tales
Rumble, rumble, get the hot weather and some fucker got a beer or two

Old firm hands, unemployed, loitering
You just get fucking annoyed like, what?
Drop-kick, you silly bastards in my dreams, that's about ya lot
Mumble, mumble, dragging out slight hills, more panic behind the tales

Out there
I run my fingers through my hair
I wanna tell the bloke that's drinking near the shop
That it ain't the foreigners, and it ain't the fuckin' Cov
But he don't care

(Panic behind the tales)
(Panic behind the tales)
(Panic behind the tales)
(Panic behind the tales)