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Working Class Artists

from Working Class Artists by Working Class Artists

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lyrics

Sitting in the job centre.
Paper, pencil in the bin.
Around me are tracksuits,
black eyes ,and common sin.

Misery for breakfast,
two-day-old cigarette.
Think you’ve hit rock-bottom:
I think you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Your art degree is useless.
I’ll tell you what the truth is:
Your magnum opus: bogus,
that empty canvas hopeless.

Your art degree is useless,
might as well be peddling piss.
Everybody told you
there’d be more to life than this.

You’re a working class artist
Fuck you, you’re a working class artist.
Dirty working class artist.

Sitting in your bedsit,
trying to make the words fit…

Sitting in your local Spoons,
sponging off your mum and dad.
You think that you’re a trendsetter,
but you’re just a bed-wetter.

Foraging for fag-ends
after work to help the pain:
Tiny bits of used-kicks
to stop yourself from going insane.

Flogging tat on etsy.
Heavens to betsy!
You’ll never make a living,
did you think it would be easy?

Commission work is running thin,
too much paper in the bin,
won't get up for work again,
can’t believe the state you’re in!

You’re a working class artist,
snot nosed anarchist.
Filling up your arteries,
holding in a piss for fun!

You’re a warehouse wanker,
tattoo of an anchor.
Weekends are filled
snorting cocaine like a banker!

You’re a pound-shop Banksy,
wannabe Francis Bacon.
Too much Tracey Emin,
You drink like Bukowski!

You’re a working class artist,
don’t know why you started.
Take a long look in the mirror
it’s time that you departed.

Stop, just stop.
What’s the point?
You’ve got nothing special or original to say,
you’re only doing this as a distraction
from your even worse everyday life.
Something to pretend you live for,
while people born five years after you,
with better bodies, and smarter spending
surpass you on the career ladder,
and the housing ladder,
and all the other fucking ladders,
while you stand, encircled by them all,
too scared to get above the first rung of any of them.
Going between them as if another look will yield a fresh perspective,
or the confidence of Fred fucking Dibnah.
In reality: you’re the obsolete industrial chimney with a corner knocked out,
propped up by burning stakes.
It’s only a matter of time until you fall,
and do yourself and all of us a favour.
You’re no visionary saviour;
the wrong generation for a washed up raver!
No one would listen even if all you had to say
could be expressed as a quasihemidemisemiquaver!

credits

from Working Class Artists, released October 9, 2020
Jonty
Anthony
Vinny
Mark

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Working Class Artists England, UK

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