You, with your bloodshot laugh and your whisky-marinated dreams. Always disappearing behind somebody else’s big idea. Don’t call us; we’ll call you (deal?).
You, with your menu of friends and your over-elaborate pariah-complex. Always appearing for the sake of appearances. Don’t look now; here comes a busful of uncertainty.
You, with your belligerent disco-shoes and your bag of Sunday Night Fever. Always turning up at the wrong place with the wrong assumptions. Don’t stop; the music will fall off a cliff.
You, with your squeaky new candelabra hat and your matching nightwear. Always embarrassing me. Don’t; really.
You, with your, ‘I’m staring into my Destiny’-face and your seventh favourite mirror. Always the odd one out in a roomful of well-drawn expressions. Don’t believe everything you see in portraits; apart from the frames.