Little bit-o-floor

Twenty fifth of the fifth,

twenty twenty.

Again were in,

the land of plenty.


The black burnt trees,

The flooded streets.

No one walking,

in case of police.


One hundred and seventy fines,


things went

into the slides.


People are marching,

hoping to get laid.

Russeling and brusseling,

yelling to be paid.


Tell yourself – your free at last,

tell yourself – that the dangers past.

Tell yourself – anything at all,

Just leave me the right – to my little bit-o-floor.


Dont look around,

at the supermart.

hoping to meet,

friend or tart.


Dont gidday,

then ask your mate.

How their day’s,

degenerating. shaate.


Dont smile dont run,

dont breath any fun.

Anything seen,

Drum drum drum.


Morning morning

mourning mounds,

walking walking

working’ grounds.


Staring center,

slightly right.

carefully not to,

create a fright.


Hallow neighbours,

Pent up pets.

Dogs running rampant,

Freezing cold slacks.


Off humming and drumming,

walking the land.

whistling dixie,

like nobody can.


Stretching those things,

seldem seen.

like gums and lymph nodes,

and digestion of beans been.


Scratching some bones,

thumping some spots.

moving ones hairline,

as each sides hopes flops.


Forced breathing,

why do I try?

the heat I gen,

might go into rhymes.



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