Nothing to look at, nothing to hear
No place to go to, no one to meet
Nothing to fear, none to expect
No money to spend, for a no place to stay
Nobody to fuck with, no one to talk to
No job, No indulgence, Nothing to do

No Saturday dinners, Not a minute to rest
No one to rely on, No fucking regrets
No paths to be taken, no roads to walk
No yellow wood signposts, No writing in chalk

No space for intimacy, no respect for oneself
No borders, no limits, No sins to admit
No evening daydreaming, No falling, No one
No witch hunting masses, No father, no son

No demonic laughter, No childhood dreams
Nor silence, nor music, part junkie, part clean
No time left to think about what should I say
Not worried, not bothered, Not normal, Not sane

No yesterdays blooming in dusty bookshelves
No tin foil wrapped ambitions, No hope from these days
No abandoned places, no crying for help
No much to remind me there's not much is left