Sick A.M.

A current flows through nerves of copper
My rent’s off to some idyll
With more credit cards than credibility
And i’m up at six A.M. drinking coffee…
Staring into space
A pinup’s arse
In my face
Beg your pardon ma’am
And god damn the tosser
Who put you up there
Let’s make this clear:
I’m sick of every prick
In the locker room
If i don’t stop the shit
Maybe i’m part of it
But my colleagues aren’t my comrades
And i’m counting down the days
'Til i leave here with expletives
See ya, gobshites on laxatives
Guess i’ll never have the nerve
To say what i think you deserve
To hear. Sure thing
I can’t see you can’t see
Past your posturing
But neither macho stance
Or deference
Will save your neck
We all finish wrecked
Tossed to the trash
Shattered glass and flaked ash
While the radio anchor farts the news
He says what he likes
'Cause they like what he chooses
To say
Writing wrongs and wronging our rights
'Til the day
The electrics go down all over town
Power cords jump from their walls
The powerful run for their halls
And palaces, flee the masses
Doors slammed in our faces
You’ll end your days on a back porch
But not your own, pipe in hand
Rather stranded among the scorched
Bodies piled before
The last bunker’s fastened hatch
Strike your last match
In a smouldering crippled land we once called Earth
Disease and hunger competing to get you first