My jeans are on backwards and tattered legs
Not quite a six-pack, more of a party keg
Don’t need a wingman, don’t need no aid
Think I’ll just sit at home and write dystopia instead
If you think my eyes are brilliant, my rhetoric dazzling
Don’t get too excited love, cos I’m already spazzing
Haven’t even got as far as asking your name
All these scary randos look the fuckin same
Nice shoes, bro! Another lass she flirts
She sees them furrows frown as my gangsta powers revert
Boys don’t take compliments no more! In disgust she moans
She’s getting better action with that chuffin’ feather duster way back ‘ome!
Charismatic son of a bitch! So why the timid switch?
The old, old question baby, if I knew the answer I’d be very rich!
Maybe it’s just the poisoned DNA
Don’t call my name or I’ll evade you mah good old-fashioned way
Which one is the real one, the spacker or the artist?
Don’t grab the side at hand, or you might end up with the farthest
You can roll a dice, and you can roll a six
Let’s watch it turn to zero, I got about half as many chattin’ balls at Little Mix!
On stage they think I’m Cohen, or maybe even Jagger
When I get off I’m more like some little Tory pig-shagger!
Eloquent by day, mute and way off-course by night
My artistry is raet bangin’, that’s why mah conversation is so shite!
Autism nowadays is a fashion statement
So how can one artist be so fucking uncool
Small talk with the lasses is supposedly the easy part
If you think that baby then it’s time to go back to school!
Creativity is my superpower, or so they say
But my Kryptonite is pretty fucked, and it begins with A!
From A to Z, look but don’t you ever try and touch
I don’t really rate hypocritical flattery very much!
To look at me on stage you’d never know I’m special
My artistry not retarded, just conveniently dishevelled
So it’s time to keep on rollin’ with my Muses
I don’t want to lose your love!
Image by Papafox on Pixabay.