Nabokov is sun-licked now. Upon the beach at Gruenewald. 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 of those men in the sand. I'd rather be high. I'm seventeen and 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. I'd rather be high