You with your ways,
you with your strange ways,
dropping everything,
and disappearing for days,
leaving your music on in the flat,
whilst leaving an old woman crazed,
leaving her to pull her hair out and go insane,
dirty looks upon the stairs, as you pass on by,
though she knows not your name,
knows not your name,
no, not senile, not stupid, not miserable,
just sick of having to complain,
and tired of wishing people would use their brain,
use their brain,
yes, every day is the same,
to the old woman on the stairs who has given up caring,
and who is not going anywhere,
yeah, she thinks to herself as she gives you one last stare,
and she waves her hand with a dismissive air,
as you go on your way,
laughing at every step probably high on something,
oh, what is it with the youth today,
what is it with the youth today?
Another Old lady sick of today,
another old lady with not much to say,
an old lady who spends her time watching television,
thinking of her dead husband, as tears roll down her face,
and she waits for death to come her way.