The Dirty Third  (B. Crouch)
	All that I need  is a bag and a box one to bury my troubles one to pack up my socks Lord I was a private schoolboy upper-middle class privileged to make my own troubles design my own traps I have my own laboratory a trash can full of vice My friends come to the cellar door to get clarity and roll devil’s dice She was a public schoolgirl from PS 39 Never had a spare pair of shoes nor the thinnest of dimes The only things that she had were personality, a swell at the hips, those black-painted lips and a vinyl purse full of things to please you So, here’s to my troubles like Houdini’s locks Choke up that key before I drown in this box Her man’s her little chew toy A wet-mouthed singing blues boy Spittin’ sin, sweatin’ droplets of gin “You don’t want those front seats,” they’d warn you He asked her if she’d found God She said “I haven’t looked hard but take my hand to the back-alley man. He’s got the next best thing there for you”	He opened up his throat swallowed it down hard Shouting, growning, ugly, twitching sick on the sweets of the world Don’t cry little girl Don’t speak his name You know you didn’t love him Why’d you come here to see me? Now all that I need  is a bag and a box one to bury my troubles one to pack up my sox Out in the woodlands put out that flashlight Out in the woodlands put out that flashlight  Momma always said, “You got to kill her with kindness” Well, if that don’t work this old shovel might Hit the ground running Can’t go too fast You know I got to make good time but, Lord, I have to last Here’s to my troubles  packed in a box buried in the woods under three feet of rocks