Home Counties - Uptight (Explicit)

I consume myself in a blank screens dullnessPost-adolescent, I'm not listening I'm waiting to speakIt consumes me in my wholenessYou say something I'll forget it almost instantlyIt's how it is and how it's always beenOh shoot meIt dissolves me like the monasteriesHell-bent on searching for a place to go with free entryDid monasteries let you in for free?That doesn't matter when I am down hereAnd you are up there sitting in your episcopal seeAnd there's no place I would rather beThat's my problem, I'm too nostalgicOver nothing, its kind of tragicI guess you could say that nostalgicIs self-indulgent overthinkingI'm sentimental and always will beBut for the wrong thing – I'd burn the monasteries Tear down the oak beams, plow up the estatesUntil it's too late – is it too late, too late?Revolutionary sentimentLike a walking A-Level textbookLeft at the wayside and shifting rightwards Left with nothing but the hope that maybe one day I'll beWell regarded for my posthumous spreadsheetsRespected unconditionally for my tasteful formattingWidespread validation for my data validationI'll be lauded across the nation for my humble contribution to the fieldThe sinking feeling about the curtain callThe burning dread it's been for nothing at allRealising that I'm losing my touchThe bank is empty and it's running on luckI start to feel this ain't a chorus at allJust a melodramatic trail of thoughtIn the end I could just move home to my parentsMaybe then I'll stop complaining when it's OK, OKAspiration – I went and tried itFelt like a tourist, felt like an expatWithout the money, the wife and air miles To say that's not me, is that denial?So did a spin class, I got protein shookLike a walking bad self-help bookBut after two weeks, back on the crateAnd now it's too late – is it too late, too late?Future prospects beyond the paleDream of Whitehall, nightmare of salesApocalyptic post-London visionsWhen I'm forty I'll say "how did I get here?"When I quit my city job of limitless promotionEarned a lot of money so that I could sack it all inDraw a sinking line in the forever sinking sandAnd tour the South of England with the original line-up of the bandThe sinking feeling about the curtain callThe burning dread it's been for nothing at allRealising that I'm losing my touchThe bank is empty and it's running on luckI start to feel this ain't a chorus at allJust a melodramatic trail of thoughtBut in the end, if you don't stop meI could, I could go on.