Counting down the days till I’m twenty-four,

Approaching my mid-twenties is such a fucking chore.

I had more excuses when I was nineteen,

Back then I was so new to the world, I was almost lime green.

Trying to see things in technicolour,

It’s almost as hard as finding a silver dollar.

What do I have to show with the past twenty-three years?

Sadness and fear, dirty sheets, and far too many tears.

No, that’s not true.

I’ve been pretty mellow,

I’ve got a job and a home, it checks out nice and yellow.

Happiness and dreams and all that fun jazz,

At the risk of sounding lonely, it’s not that badass.

Maybe one day when I’m thirty-four,

I’ll look back and wish I didn’t treat it like a bore.

Or maybe I’ll be dead and gone and buried,

I’m not sure which would make me more merry.