Adult

Have you ever felt so strongly that it's manifest in pain?
As a child did you burn upon losing in a game?
As a teenager were you stung every time you saw that soul
Who didn't know or even like you, yet was your steadfast goal?
But then in adulthood this stuff should go, our hides as thick as leather
Not depressed by puerile things like girls or work or shitty weather
We're stronger than that, developed, we've matured with years
And yet I've found that time has served to merely multiply my fears

Machine

I've got a ten tonne machine and it's working on it's own
It's doing it's own thing while I'm playing on my phone
A behemoth, a genius, although it does have its limit
It can't get sick of working, say fuck it and just bin it


I've got a two wheeled devil although it looks more like a pram
It grunts and guzzles forty miles faster than a man
It's prettier, more useful and more expensive than dull old me
But it's just a hunk of metal without my magic key


I've got a metal box which spits out caffeine daily
And I dread to even visualise the time that it might fail me
But my addiction isn't that bad and I think that I could cope
Wait a minute please it's just that idea's bringing on a stroke

Sunday Train

Kneeling in a passage, in a train, going home
Sardine-style and sweating, Sunday night on my own
Peering through the glass, fancy headrests, all that space
Wishing for clemency and the conductor's good grace


Knowing all full well that I'm chancing my arm
Trying to improve my trip, not doing any harm
Sardine-style and sweating, Sunday night, going home
No reception, no friendly voices, no distraction from my phone


Cradled by dingy carpet as my thighs begin to burn
Sidling towards seats wondering when will be my turn
Sardine-style and sweating, Sunday night, not long to go
The longest is the last hour, empty seconds, syrup slow


But this is time to work, let's all be productive
I'll unfurl my tome and con myself constructive
My thesis stares vacantly as vacantly I do stare
This competition continues but is decidedly unfair

Parakeet Projector

Grassy mound, the path, straight and long

The city besmirched by that hideous song

December, wet and always dark

The parrot's king of all hyde park

The scene is English right to the hilt

Picnics, dogs and fountains gilt

National hol'days, the loafer's treat

Defiled by the parakeet

Green all over, carrot nose

Scream and whine and on it goes

But visitors seem oblivious to

This squawking, my head in two

Joggers jog and walkers nod

And "Holy shit," and "Oh my God,"

These birds, all a chatter, reveal in me the central matter
I've been working far too long, this isn't such an awful song.