TV Dinner

Hypothesise a hero's rise and teach them all to then despise It is our way to make a king, romanticise how they begin Fetishise their struggling while all the while, they're suffering In every worming memory of what they truly are The rigmarole, the tortured soul, the constant spin The merry-go-roundhouse kick into the face, sheer loss of private space The moths, the snakes, thе tiny waist-coat tail riders suck the grace And littlе colour out my face, the cancer in a padlock case No one gets into my space No one gets into my space The market before anything The darkest days are yet to sing Like Winehouse, she was just a bairn They love her now but bled her then They reared me as a class clown Grass-fed little cash cow I cashed out, headed hellbound And now they point and laugh And no one gets into my space No one gets into my space Am I up to this? Am I up to this? Am I up to this? No one gets in I'll sell my story when it's true, I'll paint a pretty pic of you I'll walk amongst the ones who walk and talk when I am born I'm in the embryonic state, on borrowed time, I clean my plate With a TV dinner, I spectate, the fucks all gesticulate The chip on shoulder pulsates, my hatred, it mutates Posh cunt had me irate, he said, "We're all the same" Are you wild? Do you have enemies? A start with no amenities? A mark that bleeds a legacy? A spark without tuition fee? A darkness that they envy? They frenzy to befriend me But I kna ye, you'll sell me You'll sell me, you'll kill me No one gets into my space And no one gets into my space Am I up to this? Am I up to this? Am I up to this? Am I up to this? Am I up to this? Am I up to this? No one gets into my space