Now that WW3 is looming, I think I am too old to be conscripted to the front, so I intend to take on the role of eccentric madam of a state run brothel near the trenches. I shall wear slightly shabby furs, too much costume jewellery, drink gin in the morning, & have all the girls call me “mother.”
Comments
I refuse a drink and a girl and just want to know where the corrupt sheriff is.
You stand alone on stage, staring into the middle distance, singing through mascara tinted tears, ash dripping like pathos from your cigarette holder.
God this is gold. Get me Elaine Paige.
But I could always be a crazy guy who shouts at pigeons and pelts strangers with stale bread.
(Or shouts at strangers and pelts birds with stale bread, I’m not fussy)
*covered by Glasgow's finest
https://youtu.be/zqx5j-FuqeI?si=DrzLFD5kCaHFRCTH
I will play some melancholy bangers uniting people in longing for home.