It's late, you boring fuckers, yes, it's late
Three thirty, or thereabouts, late, I say
If you have gone to bed early, I hate
You, you have got it wrong, and I will say
Live life, like my father, not mother, hey
Poor mother, fooled by bullshit, just don't know
Tried to suppress us, as if we were prey
Of aristocrats, know our place, and go
For house maid jobs, because we all do know
Our place in society, we should state
Our individualism, try to say
How we feel, good or bad, it's good for show
It will soon be four, strength now dissipates
And tiredness dominates, bed calls, no hates!
Sat 1 March
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