I’m not sorry to tell you that your daughter is on drugs,
she’s got smack-heads sleeping on your DFS rugs-
I know that you don’t hold me in the highest regard,
but at least I don’t ask for MDMA in exchange for ten minutes with my arse.
I know that you blame me and believe I am the devil incarnate-
but you didn’t say those things: when I paid her phonebill, paid for her food
and her lifestyle-
like she was some starving artist.
You see, I do agree, we just do not work well together-
but I still hope, that if she changes, that there will be a future for us both.
All she really needs; is a new personality, a brain transplant-
and some nose plugs to prevent her from putting shit up her nose.
There will be nothing but pieces of you-
that they swore was once crystal,
and only then will it all be clear-
your enemies were all too good and near.
You will chase that terrible town with excuses to drown-
every good memory with a shot of sympathy,
and none will you have saved for-
The difference in you and I-
is that I built a house of happiness made of bricks,
yours is a shack of self-absorption,
thrown together with mud and sticks.
I hope you engulf your nose with the sweetness that you snort-
commandeering a ship destined for a black-hole on mission-
you can never abort.
Soon are the days in which I become the bittersweet morning-after afterthought.
There is no doubt that your life will discover some plastic joy-
in the same personalities, same rituals and the same boys.
However, the plastic people will soon become apparent and real,
then, when you are stuck in your cycle, how will you feel?