I’d Rather Be High
Nabokov is sun-licked now
Upon the beach at Grunewald
Brilliant and naked just
The way that authors look
Clare and Lady Manners drink
Until the other cows go home
Gossip till their lips are bleeding
Politics and all
I’d rather be high i’d rather be flying
I’d rather be dead or out of my head
Than training these guns on those
Men in the sand i’d rather be high
The Thames was black, the tower dark
I flew to Cairo, find my regiment
City’s full of generals
And generals full of shit
I stumble to the graveyard and I
Lay down by my parents, whisper
Just remember duckies everybody gets got
I’d rather be high i’d rather be flying
I’d rather be dead or out of my head
Than training these guns on those
Men in the sand i’d rather be high
I’m seventeen my looks can prove it
I’m so afraid that I will lose it
I’d rather smoke and phone my ex
Be pleading for some teenage sex yeah
I’d rather be high i’d rather be flying
I’d rather be dead or out of my head
Than training these guns on the
Men in the sand i’d rather be high