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TV Dinner

de Sam Fender

Hypothesise a hero's rise and teach them all to then despise
It is our way to make a king, romanticise how they begin
Fetishize their struggling, while all the while they're suffering
In every worming memory of what they truly are
The rigmarole, the tortured soul, the constant spin, the merry-go
Roundhouse-kick into the face, sheer loss of private space
The moths, the snakes, the tiny waist-coat tail riders suck the grace
And little colour out my face, the cancer in a padlock case

No one gets into my space
No one gets into my space

The market before anything
The darkest days are yet to sing
Like Winehouse, she was just a bairn
They love her now but bled her then
They reared me as a class clown
Grass fed little cash cow
I cashed out, headed hell bound
And now they point and laugh

No one gets in to my space
No one gets in to my space

Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
No one gets in

I'll sell my story when it's true, I'll paint a pretty pic of you
I'll walk amongst the ones who walk and talk when I am born
I'm in the embryonic state
On borrowed time I clean my plate
With a TV dinner I spectate
The fucks all gesticulate
The chip on shoulder pulsates, my hatred it mutates
Had me irate, we said 'we're all the same'
Are you wild? Do you have enemies?
A start with no amenities?
A mark that bleeds a legacy?
A spark without tuition fee?
A darkness that they envy?
They frenzy to befriend me
But I know ye, you'll sell me
You'll sell me, you'll kill me

No one gets into my space
No one gets into my space

Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
Am I up to this?
No one gets in
To my space

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