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Too shy to kiss you
Too unhopeful to even ask
Too scared to love you
Too afraid to look on backLonely nights, lonely dreams
Everyone finding there ways
Lonely lifes, lonely breads
Everybody searching for loving beingsTry and try and try
Too shy to tell you
Too unwilling to crack a smile
Too scared to hold you
Too frightened to own up toLonely souls, running cold it seems
Everyone searching for a better reason
Lonely shores with a swaying breeze
Staying indoors through the seasonCry and cry and cry
Too shy to call you
Too emotional to say hello too
Too worried of who I’ll turn to
Too foolish to say I Love YouLonely Skies, Clouds side to side
The World beckons’ in doubt
Lonely Life’s, nothing in sight
Rivers run empty with nothing but droughtDrive and drive and goodbye
well thats cheered me up no end
ffs and he’s in charge of our footy team?????????????? Where is the Shankly, the Ferguson, the Busby, the Stein??? We get a poem from Pam fecking Ayres at half-time? C’mon Matty, smash some cups, launch some football boots, kick a door off it’s hinges! MOTIVATE!!! :wink:
:lol: This might get me dropped to the bench or sold to Coventry – but, like Blackadder, I’m going to do it anyway..
(A knock at the door; Edmund opens it to find Pitt the Younger.)
Edmund: Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Lord Privy Toastrack! Pull up a muffin; sit yourself down.
Pitt the Younger: You don’t like me, do you, Mr. Blackadder?
Edmund: Well, nobody likes a loser.
Pitt the Younger: Oh, then that’s why nobody likes *you*.
Edmund: (serious) What?
Pitt the Younger: You lost the vote. Your monkey obligingly voted for us.
Edmund: Oh God, no… If you want something done properly, kill Baldrick before you start…
Pitt the Younger: You’re beaten, Oik! And you and your disgusting master have twenty-four hours to get out.
Edmund: Twenty-four hours is a long time in politics. Good day.
Pitt the Younger: There is just one thing before I go… (confidentially) I’ve got this sort of downy hair developing on my chest — is that normal? Also, I get so lonely and confused. I’ve written a poem about it; maybe you’ll understand. “Why do nice girls hate me? Why–
Edmund: Get out, you nauseating adolescent! (shoos him out the door) Piss off!
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