A Quid Each

The windows are dirty and caked with grime,
we can’t clean them, we can’t find the time.
Crumbs swept under chairs as they fall on the floor.
When we can’t see them, they don’t exist anymore.

The same goes for our troubles, worries and woes.
Tip your head back, the bottle up, and away they go,
there’s no room for truth, honesty, or reality here.
We live our lives hidden under a haze of fear.

We do nothing, and the sun sets and ends the day.
Sleep through it, ‘cus I’ve got no class today.
The youth fail, falter, and fade away,
Betrayed by promises the politicians made.

I’ve got no hope left, except for the sight,
of a poster advertising great booze promos tonight.
Who needs any hope or dreams within their reach,
when the bar’s doing shots for only a quid each?