Like a Tailored Tuxedo.

Misery fits me like a tailored tuxedo, made of sandpaper, I’m a chafing zero, 

numbers just remind me of maths lessons that I day dreamed in, and the money that I never win, 

placing bets when I know lady luck committed suicide years ago, she found out that house always wins, the truth hurts when the roulette wheel spins, 

red black red black red, seven twenty six thirty four, bailiffs knock at your front door every morning for a week, squatting behind the sofa anticipating an unfriendly game of hide and seek,

you can have everything I’ve got left, it’s a mess, a teacup and a pile of threatening debt recovery letters, shaped into an SOS.