Heart Attack

Sometimes we rush around far too much for sense, in desperate persuit of pounds, shillings and pence; no wonder that we're falling down like finished flies, I'm outa here but I don't know about all you guys. No pressure now since I just resigned myself to fate, I only do modern art like a pile of bricks at the Tate; occasionally I see Tracey Emin who did the 'unmade bed,' it's no longer on view now, so we slept in it instead. Thinking of a memorial for that iconic sycamore tree, for the unenlightened, in north England, cut brutally, perhaps a statue of Dawn French with a group of blokes, she can no longer deliver her usual cheap sexual jokes. We pay our respects to these memorials, disingenuous, you pretend, procrastinate, which applies to most of us.