scrawled in my notebook
i treated myself to a dinner at bean bar last week, sat in the lounge with my book and a pencil and scribbled down the following throughout my meal.
i've decided to copy it down verbatim so i know it's a little rough at points... maybe i'll tweak it if it seems like it's any good.
it's a matter of seeking definition
i'm not in a position to be judging
nor could i boast
but every day you're trudging through your nine-to-five
while wishing you were fishing on the coast
i propose a toast
to the working man in all his glory
who needn't write in allegory to explain (with great disdain)
how he's slowly losing touch with who he is
lost in this spin cycle mixed and tumbling with the shirts and ties
without a family to come home to
acclaim the sexless misanthrope!
who like a dope went for career
intead of some fulfilling tripe wall street would not revere
now he can't smile at all
sleep his only time left truly to his own
although it's known that when he wakes he's ultimately still, of course, alone.
but does he weep for his made choice?
no, no! instead he labours daily at a job that some day maybe will promote him to 'the boss'
and anyone who stands within his way a second glance will keep at bay unless their mind is lost.
he'd throw a punch straight into
any man who tried to tell him what he can and can't decide
only a fool would tempt to break his stride
and so perhaps determination is his downfall greatest when it comes to seeking 'her'
thirty-six and fading fast his gall is built to well outlast the mortal coil which does contain it
he hasn't had a date in seven years and all the beers on tap still never quite explain it
will he find love? or is it point and shoot him out of bed and into suit
another day behind a desk and empty heart inside his chest
eyes flicking back and forth across a page a hundred times
or signed his name but one last check just to be thorough
mind thinking 'gee i'd like to burrow deep between the secretaries' tits and see how soft a pillow she could make me'
'i bet her bra is red and lace oh-so inviting for my face to come enquire'
but instead he sit tfor fourteen years without the tears and laughing, screeching babies at his ankles til he's fifty and retires
what joys befall him 'long the way
will make each night and many days
some semblance of a coated pill to swallow
but without bliss of woman's touch his job will seem like all-too-much and surely he'll take friday off
next week and spend the time to sit and wallow in the bathtub til he's drunk on scotch and on a whim he'll
shave his crotch and think of how to end it
but he'll remain the ever-faithful coward
pruned from soaking for ten hours
but he'll be fine
so raise your glass
and toast this yellow-bellied hack for being "real"
and despite how he may feel about his lack of sex appeal
he can relax
and know the fatal heart attack won't come too soon
or soon enough, he's HAD enough
(so call your bluff)
poor henry duff...
i've decided to copy it down verbatim so i know it's a little rough at points... maybe i'll tweak it if it seems like it's any good.
it's a matter of seeking definition
i'm not in a position to be judging
nor could i boast
but every day you're trudging through your nine-to-five
while wishing you were fishing on the coast
i propose a toast
to the working man in all his glory
who needn't write in allegory to explain (with great disdain)
how he's slowly losing touch with who he is
lost in this spin cycle mixed and tumbling with the shirts and ties
without a family to come home to
acclaim the sexless misanthrope!
who like a dope went for career
intead of some fulfilling tripe wall street would not revere
now he can't smile at all
sleep his only time left truly to his own
although it's known that when he wakes he's ultimately still, of course, alone.
but does he weep for his made choice?
no, no! instead he labours daily at a job that some day maybe will promote him to 'the boss'
and anyone who stands within his way a second glance will keep at bay unless their mind is lost.
he'd throw a punch straight into
any man who tried to tell him what he can and can't decide
only a fool would tempt to break his stride
and so perhaps determination is his downfall greatest when it comes to seeking 'her'
thirty-six and fading fast his gall is built to well outlast the mortal coil which does contain it
he hasn't had a date in seven years and all the beers on tap still never quite explain it
will he find love? or is it point and shoot him out of bed and into suit
another day behind a desk and empty heart inside his chest
eyes flicking back and forth across a page a hundred times
or signed his name but one last check just to be thorough
mind thinking 'gee i'd like to burrow deep between the secretaries' tits and see how soft a pillow she could make me'
'i bet her bra is red and lace oh-so inviting for my face to come enquire'
but instead he sit tfor fourteen years without the tears and laughing, screeching babies at his ankles til he's fifty and retires
what joys befall him 'long the way
will make each night and many days
some semblance of a coated pill to swallow
but without bliss of woman's touch his job will seem like all-too-much and surely he'll take friday off
next week and spend the time to sit and wallow in the bathtub til he's drunk on scotch and on a whim he'll
shave his crotch and think of how to end it
but he'll remain the ever-faithful coward
pruned from soaking for ten hours
but he'll be fine
so raise your glass
and toast this yellow-bellied hack for being "real"
and despite how he may feel about his lack of sex appeal
he can relax
and know the fatal heart attack won't come too soon
or soon enough, he's HAD enough
(so call your bluff)
poor henry duff...