Sunday 16 January 2011

The wrong kind of luxury

















Tonight at Ford we'll all go wild

Cos the salsa is too mild
The glaring faults are there to see
There ain't no silver cutlery
Frozen croissants - please don't start
We're takin' this friggin' place apart

I knew weird things were going on
When they brought my filet mignon
'You call this steak well done,’ I said
'What colour is that, yeh? It's red
It just ain't good enough, you arse
An' what about my drama class?'

It's not just that they feed us sparsely
Only three kinds of friggin' parsly
Or that the wine list is deficient
The cultural offering insufficient
The Feng Shui is a friggin' disgrace
My emotions are all over the place

Been banged up for a year and half
I still ain't had a scented bath
This place is a friggin' liberty
An' whatever you think, it ain't just me
Last week, the tomatoes weren't sun dried
I hugged big Vernon, as he cried

He misses his music and his nan
Big Vern is a Schoenberg man
He yearns for the emotional schism
Of polytonal serialism
Take a man like that and feed him drivel
His soul is going to waste and shrivel

I told the screw – I ain't being Orphic
Vernon is culturally polymorphic
Ford Open Prison, tonight we go gaga
Ain't drinkin' no more Tesco's lager
This place is an indignity
It's the wrong kind of luxury


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