So I just keep singing my song,
because me and you will never belong,
together in sentences or phrases,
so if I seem in a daze its
just me reacting to what will be,
will be que sera sera,
the crowd cheers hurrah hurrah,
and we get thumbs up down and in between,
it seems,
the best get and the worse get dreams,
and that's really the very thing,
that boils my blood,
that forms my mud,
into pies, cakes, delicatessen shapes,
eclairs, long johns and pastries,
so much sugar I took over the french bakeries,
turned them into mockeries, or maybe fakeries,
since they mocked me once before.
Like a dog in front of the meat store
front-ing like he's really already ate,
I stand in front and watch everybody's fate,
unravel and unfold in front of my eyes,
kicking and screaming because I know its lies,
no one can be that happy with someone,
and my battle stays fought but never won,
What have I done?
To alienate that which I wanted,
to the extent that I've un-done it.
My effort and work
is emblazoned on man made fibrous shirts,
quitters never win, winners never quit,
what, that's it?
Your motto's such that you've got to win,
instead of being second best in the end,
I've got to destroy my enemies,
relish in their loss and defeats?
Not my plan, I'm not the man
So tell me I'm not the one, tell me my job is done,
and I'll laugh in your face,
and take that remote from your place.
In one fell swoop you'd get your taste,
and I'd be the one that wish YOU'D get erased,
or traced,
so we can all keep your pace,
your pace,
your pace,
your
pace
pace
pace.

Strangers - Portishead

My mood?

Pretty mellow actually. . .