A scapegoat in a waistcoat

Selling mini plagues again

There’s idle speculation

That I procrastinate my life away

A more persistent Monday morning daze



You can’t bend me

Or attempt to mend me

You can’t lend me how you’re feeling



When I first saw you in that attic 

You looked anything but ecstatic that day

Why would someone leave you sitting there 

Right in the middle of a dead room stinking of paint?

I remember just thinking you are coming home with me 

And ever since you’ve stayed in one piece



Is it an illusion you’re alluding to?

A belly-dancing stoat 

Is more believable than you



You can’t bend me

Or offend me

You can’t lend me how you’re feeling