My Kingdom For Some Horse

 
 

You know, there's a part of me that says to hell with the helicopters, and the chauffeur-driven cars; the holiday homes and the beach houses; the red carpet receptions; the jet pack; the haute couture, and the jewellery; the hospital wings, art galleries and colleges named after me; the honorary degrees and the peerage; the bodyguards and the armour-plated limousines; the space tourism, the private island, and the private jet; the underground bunker; the kowtowing politicians and the power over life and death. To hell with it all. Just stick me on a soiled mattress in deserted council apartment block somewhere. Let me fill my veins with smack, and the world can go fuck itself for the afternoon.