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lyrics

Standing at the window watching people making friends…
with their mobile telephones
They're choosing cancer over congregation- the penalty of trend…
still they don't feel so alone
But give them thirty years and they will all be crying to the NHS
They're angry with the fact
that their thumbs are curled and they'll need a plastic surgeon
to repair the mess and they're moaning no-one warned them
as they're told that those archaic mobile telephones have meant that they will never be a daddy after all

Virtual graffiti on the brickwork of our egos... and I won't forget
It's Jimmy Spencer's birthday a week Sunday I must wish him well. But wait... have we ever met?
I would go to his party on the Friday
But I won't see him there. Blame his ISP.
He lost his internet, forgot the date of his own birthday
it may seem quite weird but clearly no-one likes to go and clog their memory
with such nonsense when they could be selling horses, killing mafia, liking, sharing, talking bullshit.

{instrumental}

So all confused, language abused, and still we choose to cut these corners
Where book is cool, all good is gone, a stop to puns, an autocorrection minefield.
And a message to your aunt
Will do nothing to enchant
And leave you grovelling for hours.
So cue the laugh out loud
And with the pin drop drowned out by the beat of tapping thumbs
You're not allowed
To add punctuation taking you to one six one
But standing motionless in thoroughfares will irritate the meek... but makes me want to push you over.

credits

from .​.​.​and​.​.​., released October 10, 2016

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