When it's cold, we bite the top of our zips,
Pull it up with our teeth till it covers our lips
Then exhale central heating for the weather beaten
No feet are beating, this street in to stand by us like Will Wheaton
Walking these streets with that distant stare
No one likes us but we don't care
Maybe our kind don't fit round here
Our minds find conflict round here
See we choose to cruise a route that ain't paved with gold
So our shoes don't slip they stick and grip this road
Our tools are ink slicks that we engrave and mould
For an end goal you maybe can't spend or fold
We won't settle for unsought careers
Or forty years of salty tears
Like a battered up mix-tape with a long faded label
When I'm old and decaying I'll be decaying and able - Scroobius Pip
---------- Post added at 07:16 PM ---------- Previous post was at 07:13 PM ----------
Howe'd your battle with Ticket go btw?
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