N.B. for all the lads driving audi a3s or volkswagen golfs (i know a man that’ll come to your house and pop — president t & jme)
the banter was always on point.
gel-up, suit up, dig another kid on the coach for being sat too far at the back.
where is the respect these days?
— how tragic.
piss ourselves with excitement at sankeys
and pills we’d only take to seem edgy,
so we could sit on certain kinds of chairs in the middle of the sixth form centre
— do you hear mummy and daddy’s divorce papers rattle?
“i was a mura masa listener before any of you guys were”
step back, twist it out,
my ex still uses the porn blog on tumblr i made for him
— just to seem okay with the fact he’ll look at other naked women
and i forever a bitter bitch,
sew up the love bites he gave me which scarred a bit.
you couldn’t drink me, lemons like me too sour
— kinda like yonce’s last album.
except i can’t make money out of my heartbreak.
i just ain’t desperate or famous enough.
and i just ain’t ’normal’ enough to wear skorts
— you tell me if dad’ll let me wear em.
together we were the bitches’ and the bastards’ division.
and we can feed off a kind of hatred on each other
so dark that it dissolves your blood til’ you’re a whole other colour
— unless you’re born that way
because napa is where it’s at
and rock climbing is where it’s not
and if you’re wearing tweed i can promise you you’re a dick
— god forbid you remember me forever
yeah spin that MK or something
if you can afford acid for all your mates then sit with us
be the kind of girl i could break like a cracker
— then you can date me, you say, then you can date me.