Ant Smith
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You're The Reason

You're the broken promises
Of a Sunday afternoon
You're the ghost that hangs about
The corner of my room
You're the creeping mist that
Dampens down my mood
You're the very reason
I've got this attitude

You're the stink of carbon
That despoils the very air
You're the empty bottle
That smells of dark despair
You're the used up fag butt
That litters everywhere
You're the very reason
I'm playing solitaire

You're the cloud of dust that
Sometimes my feet kick up
You're the floating chunks left
Whenever I chuck up
You're the chewy bits of
My dried up crispy spunk
You're the very reason
This world is all fucked up