Could roll a four
Could roll a nine
Find yourself washed up in paradise

Just like before
She never used to mind
I lost my phone in paradise

And what a nice day for a murder
You call yourself a killer but the only thing that you're killing is your time
There's nothing absurder
A bird is just a burden
To your heart your soul your body spirit and mind

Oh don't look at me like that
She won't take you back
You said too much, you been too unkind
Get up off your back
Stop smoking that
You could change your life
Do you think you'll change their mind

BABYSHAMBLES - LOST ART OF MURDER

'It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for the next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wondered during the day. If you could keep awake (but of course you can't) you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight. When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind; and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on.'

J.M. BARRIE - PETER PAN