TV Dinner (Explicit) - Sam Fender
Lyrics by：Sam Fender
Composed by：Sam Fender
Produced by：Sam Fender/Adam Granduciel
Hypothesise a hero's rise and teach them all to then despise
It is our way to make a king romanticise how they begin
Fetishize their struggling while all the while they're suffering
In every worming memory of what they truly are
The rigmarole the tortured soul the constant spin the merry-go
Roundhouse-kick into the face sheer loss of private space
The moths the snakes the tiny waist-coat tail riders suck the grace
And little colour out my face the cancer in a padlock case
No one gets into my space
No one gets into my space
The market before anything
The darkest days are yet to sing
Like Winehouse she was just a bairn
They love her now but bled her then
They reared me as a class clown
Grass fed little cash cow
I cashed out headed hell bound
And now they point and laugh
No one gets in to my space
No one gets in to my space
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
No one gets in
I'll sell my story when it's true I'll paint a pretty pic of you
I'll walk amongst the ones who walk and talk when I am born
I'm in the embryonic state
On borrowed time I clean my plate
With a TV dinner I spectate
The ***** all gesticulate
The chip on shoulder pulsates my hatred it mutates
Had me irate we said 'we're all the same'
Are you wild?
Do you have enemies?
A start with no amenities?
A mark that bleeds a legacy?
A spark without tuition fee?
A darkness that they envy?
They frenzy to befriend me
But I know ye you'll sell me
You'll sell me you'll kill me
No one gets into my space
No one gets into my space
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
No one gets in
To my space
