There’s a guy sat mute
In a flat in the north
Somewhere
In the south somewhere
in the decay somewhere
in the wayward
in the sway of the swirl
of this antfarm society
busy building backwards
he has become a caveman dweller
disconnected by the sellers of utilities
vital, like gas an electric
pre paid for eccentrics on final demand
Its pitch black bar the fire
And sparse
Pitch black and sparse
Sat on his arse
Cuz he burned the furniture
To stay warm
He finally fell asleep at dawn
Just before another day spawned
Its insanity upon his pebbledash grave
Just before the kids on holiday began to misbehave
Right outside his door
Pissing in the corner of the lift
Looking through eyes that seem to shift
In flickering throws of shadows
Of early dawn
And flapping net curtains
That were already there
Like the damp on the wall
The patterns of the damp on the wall
The obligatory call of the rent man
Its stacking up
Stacking up
This sick and runny raining room
This threadbare poorly designed
Sadly declined building block
This room in the sky
The night-time draws the sodium flare
And nightly cry
Of prostitutes
And burning cars
Of ripped fishnets and slackened bras
In the backs of burning cars
He sees it all from his bastion
sees it all he fastens another zip
to stay warm
whats that orange thing rising

must be dawn