The white cliffs mean we're home

In the drawings of
                              this many years from now, I’ll be...
did you draw your body with a bump,
with the world at your feet?

The ten own-brand Boots tests in the shared toilet bin suggest serving time is over,
and out of all the ovens left on down in Dover this is one bun we cannot do,
authorise its transaction.

Facts of the matter aren’t the same when the percentages print against us:
out of a hundred we can’t even make
one.
We’re eligible for something we are, that we want to become, but

lies in lines are ticks in boxes when it comes to people ‘who can’t’,
though on the off chance of bad weather
on the wind of staying in again
as far as we know it could be positive,
so count with me.
There are a hundred and forty five Mississippis to go
and however long it’ll take to prove that
until we know if the weight of what
will roll into ‘why, I think we’re pregnant;
we’re finally in for a living that’ll never wear off’.