All look inwards as they march to the centre eyes shut,
Tourist commuters picture picture postcards.
(when they’re in they want out)
And pretend that they are better than their boring roots suggest,
celebrate the markup on things they’ve bought for so much less,
trading hours in cubicles for a week sat by the pool
look at them they’ve got it all.
When we get home we pretend
that we’re the only ones in a sea of dickheads.
Do you ever think we could compete
with the myths and the glamour that your so enamoured with?
Do you need a holiday from your life?
Do you need to get away from youself?
Are you content in misery,
I’ll take you some place you’ve never seen,
there’s things down the road you won’t believe.
Past chain pubs and car parks
futures are carved in stone,
grey chunks of wasteland will be here long after we’ve gone.
You wont escape your fate in the meat market
there’s too many people you know,
a race for individuality
you’ve got to do it alone.
Building a community
takes some vulnerability,
but you’ve got nothing to show