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You've got your clukes in me |
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Our legs locked at right angles |
|
Should scatter like pigeons |
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But I'll stay here and make sweat with you |
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And kick my own guts out |
|
Lose a pint of self respect |
|
Statued and sellotaped |
|
Tongue-tied and desolate |
|
Blow unlucky eyelashes and hide the stray hairs |
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Or should we just give up |
|
Take backward bounds and leaps |
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And sit and shy shiver while |
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While the latest one sleeps |
|
Cry from the bedroom |
|
Clean all the blankets |
|
Spend your time wishing back an act that is thankless |
|
And those old fools have got nothing on me |
|
This is a monolith |
|
Can't help but struggle with |
|
The will and the wayward old hat ideals |
|
The weight of the uniform and the way that it feels |
|
We can't see round it and all the while we |
|
Cry from the bedroom |
|
Clean all the blankets |
|
Spend your time wishing back an act that is thankless |
|
And those old fools have got nothing on me |
|
And the distance maps out like the flag of a country |
|
I never knew |
|
And hay bales with eyes half shut like sheep on sleeping pills under the blue |
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Now sink down you balsa wood box in your chair like |
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It was the dirt |
|
I'm going home to certain death, to certain death |
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It doesn't have to be this way |
|
It doesn't have to be this way |
|
It doesn't have to be this way |
|
It doesn't have to be this way |
|
Cry from the bedroom |
|
Clean all the blankets |
|
Spend your time wishing back an act that is thankless |
|
And those old fools have got nothing on me |
|
Those old fools have got nothing on me |
|
Those old fools have got nothing on me |
|
Those old fools have got nothing on me |
