Redchurch Street

Is full of twats

In Joseph Beuys hats

Stick modelly girls

Their life unfurls

Through looking the part

When, deep in the heart

They ache to doss

And not give a toss

But the aura is thick

With lookist pricks

Every pose they throw

Drives a mammoth blow

Curtailing their years

With inner tears

When they get home

They’ll be alone

Miserable fuckers

Now down-on-their-luckers

Who’d want to be

With a tool like thee?


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