Questions

I’m sick to death of hearing how
Daddy Long-legs are really poisonous
But don’t have the pincers to administer it,
That if you don’t wash your hair for three months
It starts to clean itself,
That Eskimos have over
Fifty different words for snow.

Why won’t someone tell me
How the girls on The Sunday Times’ Style Section
Got jobs, opened bank accounts, made friends?
Why some poor schmuck has not yet
Lost his cool and bludgeoned one to death?

I want to know what the British public see of themselves in a Mike Skinner lyric.
What it is you’re thinking about when I apologise,
What the people who take our seats in the pub
Talk about when we have gone
And what a child’s high chair
Is doing standing upright on a flinty verge on the B729.