Posthumous Spreadsheets

And I consume myself in a blank screens dullness
Post-adolescent, I'm not listening I'm waiting to speak

It consumes me in my wholeness
You say something I'll forget it almost instantly
It's how it is and how it's always been

Oh shoot me

It dissolves me like the monasteries
Hell-bent on searching for a place to go with free entry
Did monasteries let you in for free?

That doesn't matter when I am down here
And you are up there sitting in your episcopal see
And there's no place I would rather be

And that's my problem, I'm too nostalgic
If that's the problem, its kind of tragic
I guess you could say that nostalgia
Is self indulgence, or overthinking

I'm sentimental and always will be
But for the wrong thing, I'd sack the monasteries
Tear down the oak beams, plow up the estates
Until it's too late, is it too late, too late?

Revolutionary sentiment
Like a walking A-Level textbook
Left at the wayside and shifting rightwards
Left with nothing but the hope that maybe one day I'll be

Well regarded for my posthumous spreadsheets
Respected unconditionally for my tasteful formatting
Widespread validation for my data validation
I'll be lauded across the nation
For my humble contribution to the field

The sinking feeling about the curtain call
The burning dread it's been for nothing at all
Realising that I'm losing my touch
The bank is empty and it's running on luck

I start to feel this ain't a chorus at all
Just a melodramatic trail of thought
In the end I could just move home to my parents
Maybe then I'll stop complaining when it's OK, OK

Aspiration, I went and tried it
Felt like a tourist, felt like an expat
Without the money, the wife and air miles
To say that's not me, is that denial?

So did a spin class, I got protein shook
Like a walking bad self-help book
But after two weeks, back on the crate
And now it's too late, is it too late, too late?

Future prospects beyond the pale
Dream of Whitehall, nightmare of sales
Apocalyptic post-London visions
When I'm forty I'll say "how did I get here?"

When I quit my city job of limitless promotion
Earned a lot of money so that I could sack it all in
Draw a sinking line in the forever sinking sand
And tour the South of England with the original line-up of the band

The sinking feeling about the curtain call
The burning dread it's been for nothing at all
Realising that I'm losing my touch
The bank is empty and it's running on luck

I start to feel this ain't a chorus at all
Just a melodramatic trail of thought
But in the end, if you don't stop me
I could, I could go on