He was a wannabe music journalist,
A wannabe musician,
Opened the gate said ma I'm going too be late,
Please don't stop me, now
Mama, mama please don't stop me,
So as he took his few steps away from the hinges of the door
He felt a sickening claw,
Scratching his back,
As he turned too stand still,
He couldn't believe he was still ill
Locked away for three months
A true Nothingness, something better than a fake nothing.
Swimming in paper, the paperback writer
Was drowning, his sorrows
Downing his cuppa tea
Watching Corry orry.
An intellect lead by the Wilde
A man led by the heterosexual.
A human lead by insecurities.
Music leading him where he wanted too be.
Oh no, no mama let me be free,
Mama, mama please let me be free,
In solitary confinement,
Not needing employment
Crawling into the woodwork
Berserk, not me.
Never too write the tripe, or the folly.
Only the truth could hit the roof.
Theory on life, often only foreseen,
By those unable too live.
Bizarre fashion sense,
Crazy hair, myth brought with a black quiff.
Poetic justice, justice for the strong
It's easy too laugh it's easy too hate,
It takes guts too be gentle and kind over and over
And over.
Your crazy they say, but I don't see any body as normal as me!
And so he stays true too this day, successful but still alone true too himself
Honest too life.
