Hey baby moped ect

Mid morning spazz

His name is Chanos, king of the Downs,
On a throne of crisps in Gala Town.
Flushing things down, where it don’t belong,
Often up the wuds, where things can go wrong.

Here's The Chanos, pacing Iceland’s floors,
Bags of crisps and edibles, wanting more.
Amazon orders of useless shite,
Lost his wheelchair, now he’s starting a fight.

He's The Chanos, king of the Downs,
On a throne of crisps in Gala Town.
Banana bread crumbles as his mind fades away,
But squeaky wheelchair is here to stay.

T-shirts ruined, grease stains and hash,
Flushing kebabs down, he's likes to do a splash(?).
Up the wuds, no worries tonight,
But his fucking wheelchair is nowhere in sight.

He's high as fuck and bust in his mind,
Lord of the Downs, leavin’ the world behind.
Kebabs and hash, a total disgrace,
But he's lost in the weed's sweet embrace.

Smooth keys play, like his life in reverse,
the wheelchair squeaks slowly towards the nurse.
IRN-BRU and chips, his night-time feast,
Up the wuds, it's the moon-pig beast.

He’s rollin’ around, far from grace,
Lying down in a mess, and lost in space.
Crisps in his hand, smoke in the air,
The big fucking mongol… he just doesn’t care.

Up The Wuds

Paisley

Stains on his T-shirt, crumbs in his hair,
Sittin’ on the couch, without a single care.
Amazon boxes stacked by the door,
He’s lost track, can’t remember what for.

Ordering shit from Amazon Prime,
Forgets he bought it, happens every time.
Pizzas cold, eaten straight from the box,
Wheelchair squeaks as he rolls to his socks.

He’s the couch-bound man, fridge within reach,
Always high, with often slurred speech.
Full of THC with snacks by the pile,
Rolling slow, but still cracking a smile.


Kebabs from last night, Irn Bru in hand,
He’d flush it all down if he could just stand.
Random shit shows up, who even knows?
Looking at facebook to make his doddy grow.

He’s the king of the downs, don’t need to say much more,
Fridge right there, and food on the floor.
With THC busting his mongol mind,
Massive slug on the couch, and he’s feeling fine.

Sofa to fridge isn't far, so why even try?
Lost in his kitchen, just getting high.
Covered in stains, snacks, and regret,
He’s the couch-bound mong, and he’s not done yet.

Max Wheelchair