But Today?

So I'm in a pub in the midlands. I get it walking across the car park from a guy in the beer garden.
I get it from a couple of slag-boys having a smoke outside the entrance. For two minutes while I'm buying a pint of Ringwood Winter Stout, nothing.
Sit down.
Get it from three slags behind and two in front.

England is full of shit.
It walks, it talks, it buys cheap lager, and it's shit.
Shit, worse than a battallion of invading Doberman's fed on Bran Flakes.
And there's only one thing worse - the shit that stops us from escaping.

Because, whenever we start to reach the point where we can still be ourselves, still be antagonistic to the robots of rule, and still escape too, we get shot down in flames and find ourselves back at square one, a few years older.

And then some shit weaqring a grin thinks we've had enough, and let's the Dance Macabre start all over.