Pulp - Sorted For E's and Whizz
Everybody asks your name,
they say we're all the same and it's "nice one,"
"geezer"
but that's as far as the conversation went.
I lost my friends, I dance alone,
it's six o'clock, I wanna go home.
But it's "no way," "not today,"
makes you wonder what it meant.
And this hollow feeling grows and grows and grows and grows,
and you want to phone your mother and say,
"Mother, I can never come home again,
cos I seem to have left an important part of my brain somewhere,
somewhere in a field in Hampshire."
Alright.
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