Midday creeps along in Chessington, the tarmaced town glares down at a single individual;
the Ratman, his frail child like body hunches over to balance himself out, long yellow nails clutches onto his wallet.
The rat features are creeply distinguished; his eyes are sunk deep inside his head.
Nobodies home, nobody wants to know.
The Ratman hops on the bus, he gets his abuse, nobody loves him and that is the truth.
On the bus he shivers and shivers he is missing something, he needs his liquor.
To the pub he travels his way, to get pissed out his face to take away the pain.
Now its closing time the Ratman staggers his way home, all to the tune of his high pitched incomprehenible song,
the guy squeels and squeels until he gets himself noticed, some people dressed in hoods do him a service,
he gets the royal bin bag treatment, quickly after he gets thrown into the river;
drowning and drowning water or liquor?
Drowning and drowning hes long gone like a soldier;
There is no torment now.
None!
Not at all!
Not a little.