It's 5am in January,
And the sky is like a mineshaft.
But on Platform 4,
The 15.59 is running late.
Last night, at 9pm,
I had a pencil in my hand.
Today, by 9am,
An earthquake's left a chasm.
It's 4am, he gurns,
And he regurgitates The Sun.
It's 5 past 2, and i'm running late
For Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.
It's midnight in the coach station
And the toilet is out of order.
In 6 hours' time, an orphan
Will attempt to cross the border.
It's 2.59 on Saturday
And we're Marching On Together.
It's 1997
And Things Can Only Get Better.
It's 2012, at Tracey's funeral,
Weeping like a baby.
On The Fifteenth Floor,
The clocks are going backwards.
I'm a snowflake
And a virtue-signalling tosspot.
I'm brave enough
To put my head above the parapet.
I'm a straight white cis male,
Comfortably getting by.
I'm working-class, and i'm raging
At the establishment.
When you feel oppressed,
You forget your privilege:
It's all relative.
If you flee a warzone,
You're not an economic migrant.
If you're sleeping on a pavement,
It's the system that's failed.
If Tommy Robinson is legitimised,
That's fascism on a whole new scale.
It's 11am, and i'm scribbling this in a notebook.
The United Kingdom is currently in flames.
With billionaires in the media
Pulling strings in parliament,
You've to ask yourself:
Who is really to blame?
Skint & Demoralised - Epilogue Lyrics
Skint & Demoralised - Epilogue Lyrics
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We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
It's 5am in January,
And the sky is like a mineshaft.
But on Platform 4,
The 15.59 is running late.
Last night, at 9pm,
I had a pencil in my hand.
Today, by 9am,
An earthquake's left a chasm.
It's 4am, he gurns,
And he regurgitates The Sun.
It's 5 past 2, and i'm running late
For Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.
It's midnight in the coach station
And the toilet is out of order.
In 6 hours' time, an orphan
Will attempt to cross the border.
It's 2.59 on Saturday
And we're Marching On Together.
It's 1997
And Things Can Only Get Better.
It's 2012, at Tracey's funeral,
Weeping like a baby.
On The Fifteenth Floor,
The clocks are going backwards.
I'm a snowflake
And a virtue-signalling tosspot.
I'm brave enough
To put my head above the parapet.
I'm a straight white cis male,
Comfortably getting by.
I'm working-class, and i'm raging
At the establishment.
When you feel oppressed,
You forget your privilege:
It's all relative.
If you flee a warzone,
You're not an economic migrant.
If you're sleeping on a pavement,
It's the system that's failed.
If Tommy Robinson is legitimised,
That's fascism on a whole new scale.
It's 11am, and i'm scribbling this in a notebook.
The United Kingdom is currently in flames.
With billionaires in the media
Pulling strings in parliament,
You've to ask yourself:
Who is really to blame?
And the sky is like a mineshaft.
But on Platform 4,
The 15.59 is running late.
Last night, at 9pm,
I had a pencil in my hand.
Today, by 9am,
An earthquake's left a chasm.
It's 4am, he gurns,
And he regurgitates The Sun.
It's 5 past 2, and i'm running late
For Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.
It's midnight in the coach station
And the toilet is out of order.
In 6 hours' time, an orphan
Will attempt to cross the border.
It's 2.59 on Saturday
And we're Marching On Together.
It's 1997
And Things Can Only Get Better.
It's 2012, at Tracey's funeral,
Weeping like a baby.
On The Fifteenth Floor,
The clocks are going backwards.
I'm a snowflake
And a virtue-signalling tosspot.
I'm brave enough
To put my head above the parapet.
I'm a straight white cis male,
Comfortably getting by.
I'm working-class, and i'm raging
At the establishment.
When you feel oppressed,
You forget your privilege:
It's all relative.
If you flee a warzone,
You're not an economic migrant.
If you're sleeping on a pavement,
It's the system that's failed.
If Tommy Robinson is legitimised,
That's fascism on a whole new scale.
It's 11am, and i'm scribbling this in a notebook.
The United Kingdom is currently in flames.
With billionaires in the media
Pulling strings in parliament,
You've to ask yourself:
Who is really to blame?
Writer: David Gledhill, Matthew Abbott
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management