‍I’m gonna build a skyscraper and cover it in glass,

or should I save the planet and wrap it up in grass?

I’ll design extra-terrestrial sporting arenas where crowds will chant my name,

shake hands with unelected leaders and say I haven’t changed.

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I’ll dance for my masters then work for them for free,

dad can pay my rent to get their name on my CV.

Or that’s the dream we’re sold, and yes, we are consumers.

Education is a commodity, thank you Baby Boomers.

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I’ll cherry pick ideas from the history of art,

and quote philosophers because it makes me look right smart.

If Sartre were a structural component which one would he be?

A steel tie in existension, stressed by absurdity.

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I got a semi-on for saturation in the monochrome parade,

crossed my legs to hide the truth but it didn’t go away,

I was in the Zone looking for answers but nothing’s as it seems,

lost track of time and it doesn’t help when the clock’s stuck on 13.

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I watched another sunrise and amassed a bit more debt

building in the real world to feature on the internet.

Told mum not to worry I’ll have a job very soon,

fingers held behind my back as twisted as the truth,

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The world should be more grateful for a mind as great as mine,

yet no one seems to give a shit about anything I design.

But I’ll never betray my morals or my beloved working class,

and I’ll never build a skyscraper, unless the client politely asks