I went to London and it was shit,
Was told ‘it’ll be great’, that ‘this’ll be it.’
Got my 2:i, a creative job that was ‘fun’,
And went – but I didn’t like it, not even a bit.
I only hung out with my friends from home.
Three of us, making house and feeling alone,
We’d find ‘cool stuff’ to try – rooftop bowls! A fake beach!
Then drink the pain away with blue WKD and Patron
That some arsehole had brought to your last house party –
A twat disguising themselves as quirky and arty.
Don’t worry mate, don’t need to know your name.
I’m just not into this. I know. It’s a shame.
I can’t even talk about the rent or the dates.
It’s too hard! The pain in my poor heart’s too great!
I’d moan to mum, ‘come home, there’s a thought’ –
Until she got through. Perhaps I ought.
So I’m off to a new job – not glam, but less pain. Packed up;
Like Clark Cable in Gone with the Wind (thanks degree!), I wave from the train.
Smile on, breathe deep, sit down, no regrets –
Here I am, back home with Mum in Smallshaw Lane.