Tea-Stained Loops

{heavy

kettle kick heartbeat, warped vinyl crackle,

distant London

bus rumble}

It’s absolutely pissing it down outside,

And I haven't got the foggiest where to hide.

Slipped my scuffed-up Skechers off by the door,

Staring blankly at the grotty kitchen floor.

Put the kettle on,

love, let’s have a brew,

Can't be arsed dealing with the world today,

can you?

Purple eyeshadow smudged across my cheek,

I’ve been wearing this same jumper for a week.

{breathy female vocal, intimate close-mic}

Absolute bollocks to the daily grind,

We’ve left the absolute queue far behind!

Slicing up a tomato with a blunt old knife,

Having a proper, lazy,

sovereign sort of life.

No rush, no panic,

nothing left to prove,

Taking about three business days to make a move.

Sod the stress, and sod the weather too—

We’re proper sorted, completely

Tiguidou.

{weeping slide guitar bends,

female vocal swells} Absolute minimal tempo.

Absolute British sluggishness. Tara,

Captain Quinn,

and the hyper-tuned tea-drinking crew.

{kettle

click, heavy London rain fade,

deepest bass drop} {teaspoon clink against ceramic}