Thom Yorke Ticket Stub

You're right
I know you want to hear it
How sweet it is to be right
About all the things you shouldn't be right about
Such a treat

How noble it is to gloat at failure
Your repulsion is relieved and relatable
To say that's how it used to be
Like you know a fucking thing
Your red carpet hindsight is so 2020

Resilience was a term of endearment
To be robust was a virtue the devil taught me
But I don't remember seeing you in Munich
Smoking meth with the neo-nazis

That's how they do their laundry
Bleaching the blood stains from their pure white panties
Pissing in the Alpine snow
How Romantic

Under a Franc sky tinged corporeal grey
Like the fruits of the dead follicles now growing from my face
No more a destiny for me to wait
What a waste

All the open doors have closed
The losers have all overcome you
So put all your chips on black
And bet
That you can grow a pair of balls
Turns out
You can't

I don't know what I'd do with them anyway
Check for lumps and any loose change
I wrote a letter to myself
Back in the day
I told myself that if I ended up this way
To throw in the fucking towel
Blow out your fucking brains

So now I'm sitting in my suite
Changing the locks
Changing the sheets
Watching the faces of the first responders to the scene
Directing loved ones shaken and bloody
And the only stage left is to the East
And Thom Yorke goes on at 7:30

I wonder what he will sing