Become a part-time London drunk.
I'm burning in this pit I dug myself an hour ago,
and up around the corner lies that bastard pub's front door,
and in my many changin moods and on similar days
I've cursed and spat up mercilessly at the foot of her fuckin' grace.
Chaos comes inevitably like a monarch dressed in rags,
grinning like a maniac and splashing cider in my face.
I'm going back to San Francisco to be finally at ease,
as I've reached the heralded last rung
and become a part-time London drunk.
The Bristol boys are lunatics, but madness has its virtue
they all smash their pints and feign legless fights because it's what they're fucking used to.
One autumn night in Birmingham after the band had played,
we fled into that filthy van and got out of that fucking place.
By half a mile or half a minute I was a sunken, bloated slag.
I puked up on the floorboards, my jacket, and pant leg.