Shattered slumber bliss, on a frosty dawn, By a fifty pence alarm, howling in the gloom, Warm soles stretch, to a cold wooden floor, As a plastic radio plays, a plastic jolly tune.
Into this cruel world, once again I am born, But I know my way, a path that bears no thorns, A glade that I wander, each and every day, No need for any signs, to set me on my way.
And so I blindly fall, into a cruise controlled routine, Of eight hours at work, and home in time for tea, Nothing really changes, everything the same, The morning dog walkers, the faces on the train.
But it pays the rent, and a bit more, Like a few beers, on a sunny shore, Feeding the bills, for my grumpy aged Ford, OK, not freedom, but I prefer a life secure.
Then welcome my reprive, that little piece of heaven, The bit between my dinner, and the striking of eleven, When to bed I'll go, to wander through my dreams, Until once again those ticks, turn into whooping screams.