I’m still using the perks of your premium account

The bullet was meant for you,
not the mule,
now we're stuck here carrying our own stuff
up the hill.

This guilt is heavy,
and I’m still using the perks of your premium account
to satisfy my most basic of needs,
and I'd like to tell you I stole a hoard of Ya-ba for you,
left it behind the bins for ya'
next to the parcels Royal Mail left for you,
your designated safe spot:
driver, drive me home,
take the scenic route back.

I think I thought I knew you on a cellular level,
but then the 4g dropped out
and I was left to wait by your Western Wall,
queuing up to use it for a local phone call to a God,
quarter and cut
by the string lines that make up our tin-can connection,
the West Bank murals opposite
the story of how it should turn out.

What I'd like to say to the moral high ground men at the moment is:
swap a day of feeling sorry for yourself for a chance you might hear a song that starts with a Wurlitzer,
swap your gum for something sweeter, you compulsive ruminator in the tumour mill
waiting to find out it's all for nothing.
Tell your partners they needn't ever say,
     You look tired, babe
     I'm scared for your wealth,
no more,
tell 'em there's more to money,
like Jacuzzis and 
Kevin Spacey's Bianchi & Cecchi.