Sketchead. He's coming to your party. He's walking up your drive. And he's swinging all his keys round. Sketchead. He's seen you with ya top off. He already know's your boyfriend. Retain your introduction. Sketchead. There comes the protagonist. The pips in your quince. The hour behind the spiral. The itch you can't itch in your ear. And the knot that shattered your packet of peppermints. Sketchead. There's poison in his spit. He'll complement 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 he's 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 a new name was required. Your lips went on fire. Accomplishments that mean while I. Captivated by your magazine skin. The tint on your limbs. That obscures to begin. And you know full well. That anyone who says that they don't prefer the sequel. Will still be swinging on themselves tonight