Just me and my guitar, 15 x 8 room,
laying on my 6 x 3 bed,
dreaming of acceptance, dreaming of greatness,
coping with rejection, objection,
surrounded by most of my life possessions,
subjected to living in fear of the post,
will they deliver an official brown envelope
On Her Majesty’s Service
or will it be a private and confidential
letter from the bank charging me for correspondence,
or a recorded delivery demanding payment,
or a red letter threatening to cut something off?
I never seem to have enough.
Am I really working for myself,
or am I working for the establishment,
just another volunteer helping to turn the system?
Love life? What love life?
Like black ink on a white dress,
the more I try to remove the stain
the worse it gets.