Excavating Rita

When I need you
You’re only ever twenty-eight away
With a tailwind
I’m on Shimano Ultegra now, ain’t you heard?

Through the trauma
Jemma Guntrip has failed as a friend
Venezuela, Australia, then me

But when it’s too late for drunks
And too early for milkmen
Give me the moonlight, give me a spade

I’ve got soil on my fingers
I’ve got worms in my shoes
The stench of death lingers
When I lie next to you
I’ve been allowed about an hour to comprehend
That I simply can’t walk out the door
They’ve got rules by which I must abide
Regulations to keep me secure

With a help chute and a carbon monoxide alarm
We would still have our Thursday afternoons
Consolation in the form of a halogen lamp
Dark was the night, cold was the ground
When you’ve got nothing to lose
You get worms in your shoes
You get the subterranean lovesick blues

I’m still your number one fan, I’m your Betterware man
I’m still your number one fan, I’m your Betterware man
I’m still your number one fan, I’m your Betterware man