Shuffling through the ciggy packs, the broken bottles, plastic bags. Sprinkling crumbs in corners for the vermin. There's a feast in the old rat-hole tonight. Little lady fair and rats from miles around will come to fight for their rat's full share. It's a pity that the party will be ruined by a guest armed with a spray. Spraying murder. Playing plagues. It's early, I should be in bed. They're bombing Brixton in my head. But still I slink in silence to the station. A busker in the subway hums a tune apathetically, while showing me the windows in his shoes for some sympathy. The sun turned to a nova as he stroked his beard, swiveled dim blue eyes. Gave him nothing. He sold me knives. You and me alone together, you in suede, me in leather. Laughing on our island blowing bubbles at the world. Free from business complications, sleeping pills, bitching nations, hemorrhoids and constipation. What a thrill! Heaven indeed, sad I'm only dreaming. It's time that I accepted things the way they really are. You, me, me, you supporting cast of thousands, squash into a chute, we're sending maydays out for air. If you smashed the other cheek I wouldn't feel it. Stand on me, stamp on me, stamp out my existence. I've got this dread disease, you'd better throw me out of town. Don't you recognize the eyes of a loser? String me up, cut me down, bury me in concrete. Don't waste a slab of marble on an alien like me. It might make it that much harder to forget me. You, me, alone together, us in leather, lovely leather. The whole world, dressed in leather, depressed in leather, shiny leather. What a dream. It suits me, does that suit you? Old man tried to make a dash. He's blind, he just ran out of cash. Inspector smirked and smashed him in the ribcage. Told him \"Wait, you're not going anywhere. You're in custody. I'm bored, got a headache, couldn't care about your poverty. How old you are, how poor you are - don't matter, everybody's gotta pay. Pay the money. Pay the man.\" Deities in uniform spout up from unseen barriers. Fingers tapping \"Chopsticks\" on their holsters. It's your time or your money, perhaps your shirt, little lady fair. Slip a hand inside your coat, you're a cert for intensive care. For your local laughing policeman's only happy when you're writhing in a heap. Learned our lessons. We keep in line.
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