At the centre Where they go on weekdays It takes hours Just to slake that thirst Heavy heels And a daunting post rate Bad idea for your Blistered toes To my wheel well you’re getting close So say adios The conjecturers reject the rose Don’t stay high High High On abuse Sometimes it feels Like the world’s stuffed with feathers Table-bottom gum Just holding it together A cold son I am Cold son I am You can chase it But it won’t come easy It’s a reverie So silver-quick It gets solid When you’re old And hazy Takes no leverage to make me click To my wheel well you’re getting close The tension grows Defy conjecture and accept the rose Don’t stay high High High On abuse Who was it that said ‘The world is my oyster’? I feel like a nympho Stuck in a cloister Cold son I am Cold son I am Face plant You stumble ahead Victim of your rival pretensions Know me Face plant You stumble ahead Rival to the bitter pretensions Know me Cold son I am Cold son I am