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The Ability to Earn The day begins with venom, bad longings and fake irony And I drag my young man's corpse down the high street to wait there with the others... Past the newsagent with pungent incense burning Past the small time brokers who pay cash for your petty belongings And always waiting for something Whether it be the busses or the clock to strike five Or for somewhere safe to vomit Shuffling hot, dank feet towards our places of work Waiting for the racists to pass Waiting for the child beaters to pass Waiting for god to pass and the poet to pass Always waiting for something The word Love in orbit around a filthy, black spit Sizzling there like that... Dripping with fat Turning endlessly in perfect rhythm with the malignant flow of city traffic Wading through this Crawling through it with our mouths held open by £2 coins and salty mounds of cotton wool The day begins with venom, bad longings and fake irony And me propped up against the bus shelter waiting for god to pass Wanting nothing more than to slice that pious little smile from his face and turn it upside-down in the style of our times
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