Angel Numbers

I listen to the ghosts in my speakers
Raindrops, Angel numbers all up in the bleach fumes
Anything from dots in the screen
To marks on the street
I believe in nothing lebowski
Ain't it funny
I'm just a little hunk of mincemeat
Wrapped like a mummy
Another gold plated skinsut
Running the lobby
Another can of mystery juice
Dissolving my body
Ain't it funny how it all pans out
Ain't it funny

I write a lot of sweet nothings
No tunes or appeal
Minus any form of glamour
It's just how I feel
I write a lot of sweet nothing no tunes or appeal
Minus any form of glamour
It's just how I feel
It's just how I feel

I feel a little aggrophobic
My life is ran by morons
Coming out their homes
With their homemade little morons
Sharing all their clothes
With their leading larger morons
I think they're close with
Another family of cunts
All locked up inside this country
First thought at 14 go and tell your mumsy
Might even let you wean
Rewarded for your new feat
We could que up for the Queen and go and suckle that teete
We could go and suckle up on that teete

I'm feeling sorry for you son
It seems you're having no fun
23 and making beats in your room in Tottenham
Bpd no ecstasy you could do without em
Ketamine a bit of weed you already flout em
You could go out to the rave
Sober and without friends
You go back in the cave
Skip the sun this weekend
You could stay in and complain
Sticking on your shpeal then
Write a lot of sweet nothings
No tunes or appeal then