by Nick Gisburne
I really can’t be bothered going out
I’d rather sit here, festering away
Do all you want to threaten me or shout
It’s just another boring, crappy day
I tried it once before, you may recall
We got as far as putting on my coat
But then I had a thought: just fuck it all
I’d rather take a razor to my throat
You’re free to do whatever you may please
But never think I’m stepping through that door
If you could prove the moon is made of cheese
I’d still repeat the words I’ve said before:
I’m fake, a doll - I’m plastic, built for sex
And no one will believe I am your ex
