It's a council estate state of mind -
You tenant the house and then you die.
The smoke-stained ceiling's corners peel;
Real life can't be this real.
The weeds are seaping through the cracks.
The buildings loom like widows in black.
You go to school and make cheeky retorts.
You play ball games in the court.
Your mum says she loves you dear.
Her boyfriend calls you a little queer.
Your sister's out getting fucked
By dead-end boys dead on bucks.
The TV screens release blue blares
From council estates everywhere.
The bingo hall is your mum's home.
It seems that tragedy is your throne.