Day after day,
Alerts box turns grey,
Like the skin of a dying man.
Night after night,
We pretend it's all right.
But I have grown older and
FA market's grown colder and
Nothing is very much fun any more.
And I can feel
One of my turns coming on.
I feel
Cold as razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum.






























