The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

the leader of the oppos
in australia
caught at a strip club in 2003
“it was only the 2nd time in my life i was drunk!” he says
yeah sure
jus’ like all of ’em
and you never inhaled the dope
or actually “had” sex with the woman
or took the bribes either
or said we should go to the war in iraq
do people believe this shpiel?
cant they take it square on the double chin
and say
yeah i get drunk n go to strip clubs…
do we have to have these pathetic bullshit excuses?
now me
sk
i never been drunk in a strip club
i only been in strip clubs 2 or 3 times in my life
and i never really been drunk ever
knocking back beers n watching some bint get undressed for money
it seems tedious
i mean if it was smoking dope
n the chicks were doing it cos they actually wanted to…
well
i mean thats more interesting i suppose
but the thought of doing it for money cancels out any enjoyment
that goes for justa bout anything i can think of
imagine that….
i never been to a brothel
jesus…
they should be paying me…..!
same with music too….
if you do it for the money n money only
well…it shows…
dont you wanna know yer performers are there cos they love it
dont you wanna know the artist painted it for the hell of it
not for money?
youll soon pick up on which way it is
or the ratios of money versus love
we have to conclude that our nic
is doing it for the love
because she must be so rich she doesnt need anymore dough
the politicians want the money AND the power
except the ones who already got the money
like our mal
and power…
well baybee
its like heroin
you can never get enough
always leaving you desperate for more
but our kev the oppo leader
he must be pinching himself
an ordinary little fellow like him
becoming the p.m. of orstrayliah
and then
ratss
the drinkin’ in strippin’ rear their ugly heads
now the question you gotta ask , is
can a risque olde roue who likes booze n boobs
still be a good prime ministah?
are the 2 mutually exclusive?
i lose more respect for the geezer with his tepid denials
“i was too drunk to remember”
than if he said
“look i like a drink
i like a bit of naked crumpet
now lets get the fucking boys home from iraqi-nam”
but we already feel fooled before he even gets in
does mrs oppo leader agree?
i reckon
that the electorates opinion is this:
wine women n song is ok
as long as you get us outta the war
and did something about the global doo dah…
finally
i ask the universe out loud
couldnt your humble scribe be prime minister
i am better looking than either candidate
im fitter
i can play a guitar n sing
i’d look better in an expensive suit by a mile
im much much more eloquent n charming
i speak a bit of swedish (i bet neither of them can)
i have no brothel/strip club past to hide
no drinking problem…or gambling
or wife bashing
no dark fascist/communist/terrorist past
ive never ripped of the tax payers (that much)
no drink driving
no violence outside nightclubs
no criminal connexions
except for that one time in new york
ok
they got me
but…
it was a mistake…
look
i was…..innocent
i never took drugs ever ever ever
well not after my rebirth into the church of man, love
well not many times
a few
i deeply regret it all now
it wasnt really me
it was me….
but somehow it wasnt
look
im squeaky clean now
i never did nothin’ ever
please
cant the tb be the pm?

did glynnis johns just walk out on me?

hadda a cold cold swim in the sea
winter has returned in spades
bondi looking empty n deserted n down on its luck
hadda a half hour massage
sciatica says massage lady
are they a spin off from megadeth?
i ask my mouth full of towel
im face down
shes working on my back
outside the door i can hear the pacific ocean pounding
and rain hammering the pool
she finds knots and she leans on em
they try n squirm away but shes on their case
just in the small of my back some nerves misfiring
shes uncompromising
trying to break up the knots….
afterwards
i listened to for your pleasure by roxy music
as i walked thru the rain
a lotta impromptu type material in there
sorta have a blow n stick some words on it
it really struck me today
bogus man
the last track
every dream home
very laissez-faire music
but i never saw it as a kid buying the stuff
i never saw the way people wrote things
they seemed to have fallen out of the air to me
now i can hear it they way it happened
a one note jam n an impro vocal
bang! theres 10 minutes gone on side 2
people’ll interpret it
give ya the benefit of the doubt
cmon yer bryan ferry n its 1973…!
we’re all caught up in this thing
its rushing headlong
intelligent glamourous stars have broken the hegemony
of the prog n heavy behemoths
and little stevie kilbey turned 19
but he still aint written a decent song yet
he just wallows around in 10th rate versions
he cant figure out how they do it yet
the double tracking and the reverberation
the way it all has to fit together
i didnt know you could have a one note jam
throw some words on top n youd have “bogus man”
because ……
n then
i figured it out
i also figured out intentionality
i figured out ambiguity
i figured out harmony n melody
i figured out recording n mixing n arranging
i figured out how to collaborate
i figured out how to do it all on my own
my own self perpetuating well of song
that will never
can never dry up
my own relationship with my own muse
before all that
i was outside looking in
i had my nose pressed up against the window pane
i bought roxy music albums
i thought they were great
i couldnt see i could ever do it myself
1976 -1979 was my hermit era
in a spare room
i took the process apart on my 4 track
in a vacuum
no friends or supporters
no one to listen but my brothers
in a backwater of this world
employed but not working
at night i come home to townhouse in rivett
in the spare bedroom on freezing cold nights
or boiling hot afternoons
chipping away at the puzzle
like a painter working on perspective
i was buying and devouring large quantities of music
i was driven
i was obsessed with it
i imagined what it was like
to make a great record which people would love
yet no one appeared and opened any doors
the people who did hear what i was doing
were puzzled unimpressed n disinterested
i entered contests but had my cassettes returned
every record company in england rejected me
sent me back my stuff
but i loved it too much to stop
i believed in myself so unshakeably
i knew i wasnt the very best
i knew i wasnt the most original
i knew i wasnt the most talented
or any of that
but the sheer awfulness of most of the stuff
being made outside of the greats…..
no one seemed to do what i wanted to do
i loved loadsa music but i never felt it was superior
to what i could do……
deep down
what i wanted
and never could have achieved
was a fusion of all the very best best stuff in rock
as i saw it
enos new discoveries
bowies coolness n voices
dylans intelligence n hipness
beatle boys music
stones image n lifestyle
bolan otherwordliness n childlike naivety
so you see there was a lofty ambi ambi ambition
for a start
if you ever hear those various bootleg records of mine
like preformation n early demos(imaginitive title)
(and they werent demos neither.)..
anyway if you hear on those collections of early songs
i was trying to hit the eno button a lot harder
but eventually market forces led to it being all channeled
into the church
but i was as much an electro rocker as a popsmith
i was doing long ambient bits n noisey things
and everything
it was strange to one day wake up
n realise i suddenly was representing all things sixties
what about kraftwerk n la dusseldorf
what about lou reed n ultravox
ah everything got pushed thru the nozzle
i noticed some people were musicians not stars
i noticed some stars were not musicians
i noticed myself not much of a star or musician
but i loved it
and my love had unlocked some pieces for me
my diligence had pierced musics armour
and my intelligence had wormed its way in
and it started to get rapidly easier for me
i call myself a genius sometimes on here
half mocking half serious
but its not musical genius
not as you would know it
but a genius for recognition
in a mess of sound
i will recognize
in a mess of words
i will recognize
i can assess n decide rapidly
i can detect potential a mile off
i put my processes to work
i had the ability to make great songs appear
apparently out of the blue
but it was the processes
my modi operandi
they were bound to write something
that someone
would like sooner or later
or what…..?
i am the time being
these are my journals…..

io io ao

i dont know what you want
its not even 8 oclock in the morning here
sunday morning coming down fast above you
i need to write something though
and fast
all day n night my mind is bubbling over with ideas…
muse : just show us the good ones
i watch show on the saints
except for one good song..
what a bloody awful racket!
and how amazingly like lord byron bailey speaks
muse : have you actually ever heard lord byron?
no, but i bet he sounded like bailey
ed was lugubrious as usual
wry and lofty
what strange rockstars these 2 were…
damo lovelock waxes v. enthusiastic
even nicky cave wades in with his top drawer praise
to hear these guys talk
youd think the saints were like
guitar weilding tchaikovskys or somethin’
opening up some huge new possibility in life
bobby forster
a man of impeccable taste i guess
goes so over the top
with his descriptions
of the 1st time he heard im stranded
electric pulsations going up his feet and spine
leaving him prostrate breathless
at this stage i says to the wife
an’ you thought i was over-enthusiastic last week……?!
bradley sheppard from the goo-roos
is mystified by its eternal punk enigma
look the list goes on…
but what im really thinking
cos the saints
i admit to not understanding
in the parlance of shallow hollywoodesque cant
i dont get it
i didnt then
i still dont
i dont hate em either
theyre just outside my sphere of reference
(i used to have prehistoric sounds and it was ok)
and it occurs to me
that richard n marty both played with bailey
at different stages
but one thing you gotta admit
is that the saints had that raw sound
before most others
in the middle of the very confused 1970s
they were no namby pamby glam turkey like moi
i guess i jumped straight over punk
from glam to psychedelic comeback
in one fell swoop
like a knight on the chessboard
arriving at different places unexpectedly
actually i watch saints show
to re evaluate whether i would like staff-ish on there
is it a classic australian album album?
do i want a load of lumineries saying how great it was?
muse: i’d say so….
do i want to be on there raving on about myself?
muse : i bet you do….
do i want a load of mega successful hipsters
saying how they nicked everything from starfish?
muse: you might want it…but it aint gonna happen…
and you have no control
there i’ll be
in a shiny empty recording studio somewhere
oooh look doris…its steve fucking kilbey
oh boris…he looks like one of the nine mortal kings
i dont like that silly beard
hes got a good suntan though boris
oh look there he is when he was still glamourous(sigh)
i wish hed stop going on about himself…….
……and saying all those big words
….and comparing himself to his betters
…..and smirking….god thats annoying
…and touching the silly beard
…..and dropping in foreign phrases like zeitgeist n je ne sais quoi
…..and looking bemused and self satisfied
…..clearing his throat before weighty pronouncements
…..rubbing his hands together smugly
…..long rambling answers full of tedious details
…..putting on his english n australian accents, i mean, which is it?
….hey doris
what boris?
the shows over
damn!
i wanted to hear that one good song!
which ones that ?
you know la la la dah dah
oh yeah
the one they did in that tv show
thats right
i wanted to hear what he said about that….
why wouldya.?…itll just demystify it for ya, dear…
ah youre right doris
youre so right

in my dream
im touring nz again
i turn up somewhere
struggle to play my twisted music
my music thats stillborn as the 1st note hits the air
leaving the crowd puzzled and deadpan
my non guitar that warps and curls
my 12 no my 53 string guitar
the strings are all independently doing their own things
the frets are moving or like insurmountable train tracks
nothings in tune
nothings gonna stay that way
i exit the gig
my wifes with me
carrying something and looking concerned
fuck no! i scream n wail
outside in some frozen windy alaskan street scene
theyve stolen the fucking falcon!
my wife looks on sadly but saying nothing
in this bleak empty night street
an empty spot where the falcon once parked
it wasnt much
*but it was mine*
i’m wrestling some memory here
some memory of how my car was stolen
over n over again
in some parallel dream
and i angrily realise that they did it
they
always bloody them
those plotters n debtors n creditors
those olde enemies of the playground
and the scene
backstage backstabbers
mollified molls n oldstyle bodgies
the guys who worked with my father
who didnt understand me
the characters i’d met in books
who put my teeth on edge
them
a great conspiracy of ill wishing clowns
followin’ me around
now they stole my falcon in my dream
outside a long deserted gig
in the middle of the west island of nz
in this raining sleeting street
with my wife who says nothing
but looks on with deep pity
and concern
as i tear myself apart in anguish
a vision comes to me of them
stealing my falcon while i was inside playing
of course i scream wordlessly at my wife
they knew where i would be
she nods sadly like im just raving now
i see them stealing the car and laughing
swarming all over it like termites in a beam
the falcon starts up reluctantly for them
they force it to…..and it revs up angrily
as they all drive away in it
laughing themselves stupid
i can see them
i can hear them
i am in the car among them
as they speed away somewhere secret
where i’ll never see my falcon again
somewhere in nz or even further
but i understand their malice towards me
every little drop of wrath that each one sweats
in the freezing night of my dream
it all makes perfect sense to me
i never stop to say
hang on a minute
back outside the gig
the falcon is mostly gone
but shimmering tantalisingly like a mirage
returning briefly to fool me
each time this happens
my misery seems to redouble
and then
i open my eyes
in the grey light of early dawn
ive been struggling for aeons
im worn out by my anguish
i see wife and baby asleep
but feel as if i must have disturbed them
i feel now that i was mumbling and thrashing about
and they only just slept thru it by a micron
and the theft of the car is still hitting me
but the internal logic of the dream melts
as i wake more and more
yet in that dream
i had been so firmly convinced
that i was i
never thinking i was a man asleep in a bed
i was so sure it was me
and it was all happening
i never would have dreamed it was a dream
that is how this life will seem when its over i wager
you are so sure of the rock solid solidity of your world
but what do you really remember
how far back do your memories go
is it any wonder
we cannot recall
our other lives

i write
what they tell me to write
i take it all down
i accept it as it comes
aint no poetry
aint no reg-u-lar story either
just a feel
a need
a voice whispers
something
i try to hear it
im listening so hard
soon as i stop
the voice runs like a river
like no one you ever met
mr featherstone
containing his own contradiction
will he fall or will he fly ?
his burden is that he is his own opposite
within him 2 natures cancelled out
not just in a name
his desire to fly
his tendency to sink
the struggle for up
the pull of down
man + beast
living + dead
white + black
spirit + flesh
the feathery spirit
that can glide thru the astral like a falcon
at speed of thought
faster than light
lighter than thought
the stone-like flesh
weighing you down
oh you love it
and
you hate it
the need for other stone-like things
pinned in this continuum until it gives out
sourced in a vortex of gravity and intention
needing to decipher great quantities of information
strapped to the age i live in and its zeitgeist bastardry
a timid savage with spear and net
hunting down the last remnants of my own life
running willy nilly and helter skelter
the stone-like flesh
we sculpted with our deeds
the faces that show your kindness and blindness
the years which have meddled in your fine affairs
the seconds which undid the stone
one by one
each second
like a feather flying over stone, brushing it lightly
the seconds have eroded the stone
undone it has become
and the spirit then clings
to a number of things
things like all the stone memory
the world of pleasant flesh and wine and dreams
the hell of disease and bile and fever
the spirit forgets its feathers
the stone must break apart
the autumn stone
the winter almost over
the cold seeking stone miseries will be gone…they say
the stone masons chisel feathery angels wings
for one who will soon both down and up
for what is in your nature
the voices conclude
thats all for today

deliria fevers
youre a hot little number aint ya?
oh you got me my miss dizzy and miss fainte
cos im stuck in this spot herein the blasting sun
but half the time im stumbling in snow
deliria fevers get yer hooks outta me
cos youve trapped me in a loop
and im seasick on dry land
i dont want to close my eyes
and i cannot stay awake
and i falling in the ink
washed up on the sure
dazzled in your arms
reflected in your eyes
transmitted in my head
presented in a way
youre singing to me now
across the black divide
you smashing up my space
you swimming thru my mind
you drowning in my dreams
toss toss toss turn turn
rock n roll over deleria fevers
rockn roll off me deleria fevers
rock n roll offer deleria fevers
rock n roll of her deleria fevers
a sick song has started up
a sea sick warped n horrid snatch of song
a twisted childish melody that stabs
as it squirms throughout my thoroughfares
deleria fevers got a strange strange dagger
inlaid the handle with the blues
double sharp double bladed double yer trouble back
oh that dagger hardly felt it going in
but now you left me its a wound up wound
and my blood rises around my choking ears
boom boom boom it is a monsters drum of doom
banging thru the unholy night
as the colour drains out of the world
and we turn black n white n grey
and then only tiny moving touches of shade
that reassemble in mathematical patterns
marching forward the trillions n the billions of them
no no no
these formulae drive me desperately mad
each little hieroglyph represents a living nausea
these equations are the very fundamentals of sickness
every disease indexed and catalogued in binary germs
flies come and hover
cockroaches carapaces and trails of ants
worms waiting within out own flesh
i cant remember who i am or used to be
deleria fevers serves it all up a la carte
memories and songs
all my songs
go round n round in the spin
the sky spins around me full of my songs
my songs all mutated and truncated
wait wait it doesnt sound like that
deleria fevers singing in her sick sexy voice
deleria fevers dancing in her sick sexy skirt
she comes up real close
but her face is all distorted
oh it looks better from a distance i see
what distance…? im behind your eyes
says deleria whose a minute of hours
and as big as a mountain of mountains
shes screams at you in her silent whisper
she impresses you with her burning outline
she sears you
she sees you
she seize you
sickly confusion
giddy whirling twirling
overheated rut in the sky
where you slip outta focus
forget yourself they say
lose yourselves in us
ancestors
ghosts
phantoms in the haze
and they all have their story
and they all take your hand
pull you this way and that
overloaded with their sadnesses
white hot whispers
the light hurts your eyes
something thumps
and you come awake
awake to another level
awake to another devil
deleria fevers
says
viva!

due to illness
ttb mgnt n staff
apologise for any inconvienence
normal service resumed asap

eel guitars swim in my mind
razor sharp notes that cut your fingers a deal
in the deep hole in my past
in that thrusting darkness of my conscience
in that bamboo shantytown collapsing
in that little something i had put away
yeah bend that string you thing
up into another key
an other register
that melody will go on forever
the sound will remain but growing smaller
infinitessimally smaller each time
like the music on the titanic
still playing over the atlantic
hovering in a sad cloud of mist
everything goes on and on
and everything else falls apart
eventually
mmmm
a word to consider
eventually
i
the lemurian
i know this word
because i have waited waited waited
so long
so so long
so long ago
so far away
when it was so easy
never cold
never old
never told either
masters of this world
you talk about music…….
our musicians could call down the rain with song
we hunted the beasts with our music
we took lands with our beautiful sounds
men were wounded by the notes in a scale
women were singers and harpists and dancers
our women danced up storms
our women could pull down a fully armoured warrior
with one flowing movement
our women were so beautiful that the stars appeared
they dressed in gossamer and vivid silk
arrowheaded priestess with divine chord
women who sing the lovely words
theyre still out there their songs
songs about the love of the earth for a sky
and ammon and isis
and venus and bel
and krsna and radha
and our gods walked among us
in deep jungle groves
the drums remorseful voice
the beat now faint
weird snatches of melodies
the songs the slaves sing
the songs of the children
about the snakeman and the fat little babies
about the monkey and the golden disc
about the ghosts of the treepeople
sometimes
yes indeed
i hear the words of these songs again
and i laugh and laugh
it all comes back to me
now
lemuria
lost in the lost world
overgrown
over run
underneath the years of neglect
everything goes on
everything else just falls apart

monday arvo
grey clouds
its turned cold again
my lovely shaped red nose is freezin’
my manicured tapered magicians fingers are freezin’
my so so feet are freezin’
my well toned butt is freezin’
(if you aint seen it, dont scoff)
i read yessadays comments about triffids
sure enough mccomb comes on shuffle
grant will be along any moment now
probly followed by church
and theres a message in there
i dont want to interpret
muse: oh lord youre a hypochondriac yeblik
yeah yeah
same as it ever was
a master and a fool i remain
strangely the next song following mccomb
was
ethereal message
by hex
im serious here
what do i make of that?
ethereal message
this is happening as i write
like tarot cards turning up intentionality
something links me to the shuffle
down down down feathers in the air
down down down everywhere sings donnette
the birth of trip hop i read someone wrote about this record
completist must have i would have thought
contains some of my nicest pieces of music
i was proud of this record
sneaking into some big studio trying to mix it
this was 1988 and i was recognizable in new york
dont let the manager see you
or he’ll know who you are
and i’ll get into trouble
says bryce the wonderful engineer
who mixed this record
you see
he was allowed to bring his friends in to do demos
but we shoulda been paying
but i couldnt really afford it
it says mixed at “gambit” studios
a gambit is a risk or small loss for hope of gain in future(chess)
the next song on my shuffle is spark
i kid thee not
what does that mean?
am i to be spared?
anyway one night real late
the manager of studios comes in
and im acting like one of bryces friends
doing a demo
and the dude doesnt even know me from adam
and we talk n he clicks the remote
and the tv comes on
mtv that is
and blow me down gently
but theres me plastered all over the screen
singing reptile
the manager looks at me
the screen
the screen
me
hes shaking his head
i get up n disappear into studio
the dude says nothing
goes home
never mentions it to bryce again….
the next song on shuffle is crystal set
but its one with philthy maher singing
walk away
love like amphetamines keepsa hittin’ her sings philthy
oh wow
how like shes grinding her teeth n needs to urinate frequently
she has blurred vision n shaky hands n no saliva in her gob
now how weird was that trio of songs
people i have 13,000 songs in my little poddle
what are the chances of them 3 coming up
next up was some krautrock
then some blue nile easter parade
oh what a weary lovesick fool the singer is
his chasing love has left him exhausted
like all romeos eventually they run out of puff
trying to keep all those plates spinning at once
one woman or a hundred
the singer always returns empty handed n world weary
each lover says to himself
i will pursue love all the way this time
i will write songs predicting how this love will last n last
but it doesnt, does it?
maybe a few months
maybe a few tours
what is it these singers are really in love with
they are in love with being in love
they are in love with love itself
love love love love love
all the dreamy crooners
all the melancholy men intoning their lack of love
love has gone
love has fled
took my baby
took my head
love does everything in songs fiendss
it lies bleeding
its a stranger in a black sedan
it looks like a window
it closes like a door
love tears people apart
love brings em together
all the mistresses n sugar daddies
all the tarts n breadheads
all sweethearts n gentlemen visitors
all the singers n their songs
love jumps over tall buildings( in a single bound!)
and it works at a tobacconists on oxford street
it delivers mail on tuesdays
and it deals speed at a bar on 7th ave
love wears lovely clothes and looks good naked
love turn ya into a lemming
love makes you stupid and intense
idiot love will spark confusion
…..but love is not loving
a man loves his mother
his sisters
his wives
his daughters
his grandaughters
a man loves his food n beer
a man loves his mates who drink beer n watch the footy with him
not this man
i dont do that
no one has ever asked me to
but from what ive seen of it
it dont appeal to me
a bunch of drunken yobs yelling at a tv set
gee…whats wrong with me
i have to spoil everything dont i?
boy
when i think of englishmen beer n soccer
i feel like a hare among a bunch of mastiffs
or a bunch of american olde boys watching gridiron
or aussie oafs glued to the rugby n their tinny
look
i can think of few things worse
finally now
right at the end of this blogge
old flame comes on the shuffle
short n sweet
the way it should be
beware
an old flame is still burning there baybee
ha!

we have dinner
we have a quiz
me asking doodles n minna trivia
who were 4 members of beatle boys? i ask
we get george paul n ringo
but they cant remember the last name
cmon ! i say
ricki? asks eve hopefully
ha ha ha! i laughed n laughed
later on i ask who was the king of such n such
aurora : was that ricki?
ha ha
king ricki the great of mu mu land
he who brought rock to his enemies
a man who can play a beard of stars
n prelude to a day laye
is a just monarch for sure im certain
its sunday night
i can write anything right?
its my day of the rest for god sake
i could easily do nothing you know
but im committed n thats why im here
at your dispersal
a cold shoulder to cry on
my deepest antipathy
anterior life on this plan it
the furthest closest door
steve b kill
ask you boss to raise your spirit
a man eating fish
blew bottle jelly tin
the rockpools are tiny whirleds
snails n little fish
purple n silver stones
wolfmother of pearljam
igneous rock
basalt like
fairy dust encrusted
heres the little starfish starfish
should i dislodge its memories for tv show?
i ask my oracle in my heart
he says have no truck with it
empty feeling in treasury says go my son
it cant do any harm
its a dilemma mama
no advice necessary
none asked for
none taken
the obvious aint always so obviously the right way
all publicity aint good publicity
some things best left unsaid about some things
just leave em as they are
let em be
let em out
but resist urge to tamper in a good job
the weary(some) hoi polloi demand explanations
where didja get the idea for that they want to ask
then they edit it all up
as they wanna get an angle
on the other hand
a loada people get “reaquainted ” with ya
but reaquainted with some past glory
not what you doing now
shame i gotta be over this barrel
but i helped put me there
so its just my difficult job to deicide now
between obscure legend intacto
or
prime (ate) time (over) exposure
the stupid things that mite get said
the stuttering blustering pontificating palaver
(translate that into spanish please)
steve b kill
picking thru the embers of the past on the telly
oh yeah
i did this n i did that
self satisfied snigger
we recorded the vocals in this very room
now a dungeon in sam n ellas brothel/niteclub
i wrote the words on this bitter paper
words i wrestled from my very soul indeed
or was it
i got stoned and made something up on the spot
is there a point between these extremes that telly can understand
here is the veryguitar i pawned in 1999
which played the lead riff on the flexi disc from the same session
here i am now
over enthusiastic olde rake
despite himself
telly casting my cut up memories
answering the kwestions like a goodebouy
it was like this and that muh ludd
let me tell you this one again
on the otherhand
what real choice do i have?
its not as easy as it probably looks
its a hard slog
its an uphill road
its a thankless gig
its a struggle
its a carryon
thats the comedown