Outside goldsmiths’ coughing up blood,
Turner prize judge gasps “christ that’s good –
Leave it as it is, it’ll get first place
We’ll call it a full shift at the coal face”
Oh well you’re neither a stuckist or a yba
And you’re no longer a miner as of today
Praise for the wardens ready to fine
Anyone caught saying “graphic design”
Rag-mag seller said I’d be in pleats
Only when he’d been cleaned from the streets
Oh I could squeeze my lemon ’til my blues went away
If I had possession over pancake day
Give a philosophy student a glass of limeade
And he will say: “is this a glass of limeade?”
And “if so, why is it a glass of limeade?”
And, after a while, he’ll die of thirst