“Gubs you got a pen?”

So its the 24th of the month and I can’t afford my rent again

And its all frantic phone calls to mammy and a string of excuses to the estate agents

And every month we do this dance and every month it ends up getting paid

And the roof keeps the rain off for another 30 odd days

And that 500 a month pays for an address in the LDN,

A little home in the big shmoke where everyone’s either choking or burning up and I get to wondering if that 500 pounds is keeping my dry or its greasing the wheels that are just getting bigger and the beasts getting hungrier

as 500 becomes 520, 540, 550 and it’ll end when your dead.

But I’m not dead yet.

And my epitaph will read more than a bill at the end of a meal

Because there’s a beating heart in my chest and a thought that’s forming in my head that tells me I’m worth a hell of a lot more than 500 a month.

And while I might not be able to keep you dry in the rain and I’ll stick around when your pockets are empty and your knees are cold.

I will not be boiled down to a one and a zero.

And that tenner I lent you can pay me back whenever,

I hate that I’ll ever even have to ask for it back,

Because if it was up to me none of this would cost more than its worth

And the things that are worth would cost a hell of a lot less,

They’d even be free,

If it weren’t for the fact that the rains getting worse,

and the landlords not one for sentimental value