Sitting here amongst pals,

T.V. rattling on, despite

conversations, thick and fast,

but all in aid of desperation.

Psychology or just lunacy?

X-files and ghosts!

Suppose we'll never know.

 

All pockets empty.

Skint is something we all have in common.

So its second hand fags,

rolled from the ashtray,

and one was a lucky bastard -

found a tainted magic stump,

so shared with eagerness,

we carried on.

 

and ideas came, ideas went,

our relation to feel like the subjects

of some soap show of real life.

We need to get high. Soon. Now. Whenever.

 

So another friend will be round soon.

He's got a good job,

but he’s a fool for hanging around with us,

but he's one ahead,

while we're most times out of our heads.

 

I'll ask him if I can borrow ten,

And he'll say yes after a few sarcastic no's

and then it's over then,

even though I already owe him about 100 quid.

Being young, unemployed and bored,

it makes me sick.

 

It'll have to be a ‘teenth’ this week,

and everyone got up to shuffle on feet,

to a hopeful marijuana beat,

like demented jazz goons.

 

All got ill from walking the streets,

in hope of finding a remedy smoke,

but it's such a ‘fucking’ joke,

in town,

at home,

this company,

these acolytes,

this temple,

this house of debt .