Sketchead

Sketchead is coming to your party
He’s walking up your drive and he’s swinging all his keys around
Sketchead
He’s seen you with your top off
He already knows your boyfriend, retain your introductions
Sketchead
That cumbersome protagonist
The pips in your quince
The eye behind the spy hole
The itch you can’t itch in your ear and the knock that shattered your packet of peppermints
Sketchead
There’s poison in his spit
He’ll compliment your tits and leave you to your wits
Sketchead
Convincingly insisting the tyres were bald when you gave him the car
Sketchead
Still coming to your party, still walking up your drive and still swinging all his keys round on his finger as a pendulum to unnerve.
And then there’s you
You’ve changed
I approached you like you were the same
But soon it was apparent name was required
New lips went and fired accomplishments at me while I’m captivated by your magazine skin
The tint on your lenses obscures to begin
And you know full well that anyone who says that they don’t prefer the sequel still be swinging on themselves tonight.