I'd Rather Be High

Nabokov is sun-licked now

Upon the beach at Grunewald

Brilliant and naked just

The way that authors look



Clare and Lady Manners drink

Until the other cows go home

Gossip till their lips are bleeding

Politics and all



I’d rather be high

I’d rather be flying

I’d rather be dead

Or out of my head

Than training these guns on those men in the sand

I’d rather be high



The Thames was black, the tower dark

I flew to Cairo, find my regiment

City’s full of generals

And generals full of shit



I stumble to the graveyard and I

Lay down by my parents, whisper

Just remember duckies

Everybody gets got



I’d rather be high

I’d rather be flying

I’d rather be dead

Or out of my head

Than training these guns on those men in the sand

I’d rather be high



I’m seventeen my looks can prove it

I’m so afraid that I will lose it

I’d rather smoke and phone my ex

Be pleading for some teenage sex,

Yeah



I’d rather be high

I’d rather be flying

I’d rather be dead

Or out of my head

Than training these guns on the men in the sand

I’d rather be high