Here’s a cheque, they said to me
Your imagery is finely-wrought
It will relieve your penury
Though gifts like yours cannot be bought
We love to hear you curse and rage
You speak the language of the slum
You've caught the spirit of the age
With your inspired delirium
But the wolf is at your door
Your life is threadbare, like your coat
Aren’t you tired of being poor
Of shopping with a credit note?
There are bloodspots on your sheets
You are pale and spectre thin
You wouldn’t want to end like Keats
You need to let some daylight in
Leave this dull town and go away
At our expense, go grab some sun
We’ll pay you for a holiday
On the Mediterranean
The words continued blah blah blah
We only want to see you thrive
They said that I should buy a car
I said, hey look, I do not drive
As for being deathly pale
I told them, I don’t want no cruise
My thin white ass is not for sale
I’m faithful to my sacred muse
You’re little better than a pimp
And those you subsidise are whores
I don’t propose to be your gimp
I will not sell my metaphors
I do not want your subsidy
A hatchback or a pension scheme
No government can master me
I do not have to pay to dream
There is more to life than brass
So go hence from this private place
I’m happy in the underclass
But leave your number – just in case
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