Tucked shyly away on the wrong nightbus.
No one gives a flying fig for us.
Hollow hugs in Hampshire?
No I WILL NOT GO.
I'd sooner roll over and die,
Than "get high."

No, please don't get me wrong.
I do so really, badly, want to get along.
But if it means losing everything you are,
It seems such a non-starter.
And I don't know who my real friends are.

You're content living purely to flirt
With rough lads from Ipswich in untucked shirts.
I'll take the agony without the ecstasy.
For it means little to me, nothing to me, you see.
For those rebel regulations are regulations still!
And rebel regulations leave me nervous and ill