Feral

Thirty. Filthy. Feral. Woke up tasting yesterday's smoke Beer went flat but my ribs still broke Hair smells like bars I can't recall Mascara halfway down the wall Bills on the floor, mould on the bread Cheap black dye still stains my head Doctor said, "You should slow it down." I laughed, lit a smoke and left town They keep saying, "Grow the fuck up." I'm still drinking from a cracked coffee cup I'm thirty, filthy, feral as hell Still smell like smoke and cheap motel Body held together by spite alone Every bad idea still feels like home My knees complain, I tell 'em, "Bite me." Every bad decision still fits me nicely If this is rock bottom, pour another round I've already claimed this fucking town Hangovers last three working days Still crawl back into the same old place Friends buy houses, polish their cars I'm buying warm beer behind the bars They're making plans till sixty-five I'm just surprised I'm still alive They call it growing, settling down I'd rather be the problem in this town They call it wisdom, acting your age I'd rather die than live inside a cage I'm thirty, filthy, feral as hell Still smell like smoke and cheap motel Body held together by spite alone Every bad idea still feels like home My spine keeps cracking, lungs complain Still chasing noise instead of fame If this is progress, count me out I'll keep the dirt, I'll keep the doubt My boots know every flooded street Sticky floors and broken teeth Teenage dreams grew rust instead Now they sleep inside my head Grey hairs hiding under dye Still too loud to wonder why One more drink, one more bad idea Hell still feels like home from here I'm thirty, filthy, feral as hell Nothing left that I should sell Everything hurts, I still show up Nicotine lungs and a plastic cup Body's older, soul's sixteen Meaner than I've ever been If growing up means losing fire I'd rather burn than just expire I wasn't built for growing old Just loud enough to never fold.