Posthumous Spreadsheets

I consume myself in a blank screens dullness

Post-adolescent, I'm not listening I'm waiting to speak

It consumes me in my wholeness

You say something I'll forget it almost instantly

It's how it is and how it's always been

Oh shoot me

It dissolves me like the monasteries

Hell-bent on searching for a place to go with free entry

Did monasteries let you in for free?

That doesn't matter when I am down here

And you are up there sitting in your episcopal see

And there's no place I would rather be

That's my problem, I'm too nostalgic

Over nothing, its kind of tragic

I guess you could say that nostalgic

Is self-indulgent overthinking

I'm sentimental and always will be

But for the wrong thing – I'd burn the monasteries

Tear down the oak beams, plow up the estates

Until it's too late – is it too late, too late?

Revolutionary sentiment

Like a walking A-Level textbook

Left at the wayside and shifting rightwards

Left with nothing but the hope that maybe one day I'll be

Well regarded for my posthumous spreadsheets

Respected unconditionally for my tasteful formatting

Widespread validation for my data validation

I'll be lauded across the nation for my humble contribution to the field

The sinking feeling about the curtain call

The burning dread it's been for nothing at all

Realising that I'm losing my touch

The bank is empty and it's running on luck

I start to feel this ain't a chorus at all

Just a melodramatic trail of thought

In the end I could just move home to my parents

Maybe then I'll stop complaining when it's OK, OK

Aspiration – I went and tried it

Felt like a tourist, felt like an expat

Without the money, the wife and air miles

To say that's not me, is that denial?

So did a spin class, I got protein shook

Like a walking bad self-help book

But after two weeks, back on the crate

And now it's too late – is it too late, too late?

Future prospects beyond the pale

Dream of Whitehall, nightmare of sales

Apocalyptic post-London visions

When I'm forty I'll say"how did I get here?"

When I quit my city job of limitless promotion

Earned a lot of money so that I could sack it all in

Draw a sinking line in the forever sinking sand

And tour the South of England with the original line-up of the band

The sinking feeling about the curtain call

The burning dread it's been for nothing at all

Realising that I'm losing my touch

The bank is empty and it's running on luck

I start to feel this ain't a chorus at all

Just a melodramatic trail of thought

But in the end, if you don't stop me

I could, I could go on.