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)