The View

Thinking of poems of poverty
Sitting with a tight clenched wrist, thinking how to gain authority
Oh what a soft touch of a boy
He'd wander with pride to sell and keep visions to his self
Visions to his self
We'd talk of treasures, and over-rated games
We'd steal the milk bottles, sneaking through the back round Jimmy's way.
sitting all alone,
Sitting all alone
Pondering times of sanctuary
He was sitting taking his piano lessons, we were on half an E
Invested life in medicine, had so much shit going on.
Convinced he'd never win. Convinced he was a sin.
We'd speak of women and cheaper carryouts
We'd turn up to all the festivals, trying to bring down the touts,