Your worth is a time scale
Just because your crow’s feet haven’t flown off
doesn’t mean it’s your birthday.
And that fuckin party balloon,
celebrating the year of your life that you arrived
and did nothing with,
doesn’t mean it’s your birthday.
The last taxi has been called pal,
and it saw the looks of you and fucked right off.
It’s your birthday,
the day of your birth;
the day or night you were squeezed out in screaming agony
and you take that as an excuse to get fucked?
You’re vomiting in the street,
but someone’s crying in the close about
something you used to care about
and it’s not your goddamn birthday.
Fuckin full of balloons and bullshit,
wash it off pal, why not?
It’s five in the morning
and you’ve snuffled up aw the gear in sight
and someone’s bangin on the door because fuck you
and everyone’s nervous because he has tattoos all over his face
and it’s not your birthday.
Tapps aff, drinking games and balding heads,
someone spat on your shoe by accident and
then they punched a steward after like.
“is tonight your birthday man oh my god”;
someone took some photos
of a human being
being sick down their leg
and everyone laughed in that ugly chorus that drunks tend to do
and it might be your special fucking day.
It comes round once a year and you’ve got to let everyone know
that they can’t just sit down and chill,
they have to get up and dance
because sitting down is lame and suck and is uncool
because it’s your fucking birthday man
so fucking happy birthday
you contrapuntal waste of space
god bless you; you miracle.
