Its ten past four in the morning   my minds like a dynamo just wont give in   maybe the lights are to bright    maybe its the amphetamine that i took last night      i havn't moved for an hour   this attic is cold an smells strongly of turpentine   but i dont mind    cause am hoping the fumes might eventually send me to sleep      my eyes are blood shot from three days of nights,   of just staring through walls and refilling my cup to the top    with cheap whiskey which says on the label   distilled in kentucky but bottled in birkenhead   this kind of thing makes me smile to myself   everyday when the worlds turn you around myself      its all in good time, but all in my hell   its all in good time, all in my hell      just sit here drifting, thru the realms of the sick,    be unwell, am on tender hooks,   and am looking quite pale but still got my fashion good looks