Growing Up
I am an anti-social type,
And won't respect your space,
I speak a special kind of tripe
And push it in your face.
My fuse is very, very short,
My actions coarse and crude,
And, left alone to have a think,
I am inclined to brood.
I like to boast, I like to strut,
I mix up rights and wrongs,
And sing, when I am quarter-cut,
Some very stupid songs.
Of course, I'm tricky to predict:
I seldom know the time.
And you should see the spots I've picked
To carry out a crime.
They say that it is in the brain,
They say it's in the cells,
That we are fated, can't refrain
From being ne'er-do-wells.
Sex and drugs, and rockets, too –
A long-list of abuse.
But we are presidents, and who
Will give us an excuse?
