Allergy to dusk

With my broken-hearted syndrome and my allergy to dusk
With my head inside a bottle and my body  still unwashed
I don’t know my arrival time;my soul’s got  a new desk

I need a  pile of money, I wonder should I busk?
I need a sturdy saviour  as  Jesus  has got lost
With my broken-hearted syndrome and my allergy to dusk

I saw a few pink elephants but none had any tusks
I  need   a lot of money and a salad that’s been tossed
I don’t know my arrival time nor if my soul’s got  frost

We used to go to cinemas and consume  big bags of  crisps
Now that we are ancient we need a defter wrist
Mend our  potty syndromes and  the fear of  musk and dusk

 

The hair once long and silky  has  matured into small  whisps
The eyes so blue and singular   turn red when I am pissed
I don’t know my survival times nor if my soul loves rust

I  was looking for a husband but I found an  iron fist
Oh, men, you don’t need armour in the bedrooms of the lost
With my broken-hearted syndrome and my allergy to facts
I don’t know my arrival time, the timetable’s been wrecked