Citizen M

walking down mare street

with ipanemea sandals on my feet

splashing sleet in cold drips

fake ripped jeans got real rips

started to vape tried to force quit

deisel and BBQ is the flavours I hit

im the soul patch on your moustache ride

when you let your flat out to sky TV (for a zombie apocolypse shoot)

and youve got nowhere left to hide.

You slip instep with a jack the ripper tour

and get mistook for the guide

phone batt percent is down to four-ish

matcha green smoothie fountain kinda moreish

adult movie on the TV

set the mood lighting to whore-ish

(on the ipad its called 'romantic')

most art nowadays is just semantic

on the back of the handout is a picture of your face as a map

pedantic, bewildered and showing confusion

alienated hurt  continuing cultures chain of abusion

pull down invisible metaphorical fake working class flat-cap's

coarse wool over your eyes

gather harry potter's real dad's magic cloak around your thighs

to disguise yourself as you shadowbox security guards on behalf of guys

in public toilets smoking synthetic natural highs

you left your clip-in top knot at my house last night

and the seven pound desert wines effect wore off at first sight

and in the morning i was moaning that I felt like shite

outsdide the awning of the kidd medieval moorings chalk bright white

the wind blows little bone china single-use clay pan pipes

from mouths that were calling people cunts here 200 years ago

with fouth breath shud be brushed more

and the real gibbet post neck noose yawning merchants foe

ekeing out public death to crushed poor

mostly the same organisation of power

glitter and wetness on the bed

represents an excellent type of shower