This Is Hell Lyrics
| Song | This Is Hell |
| Artist | Elvis Costello |
| Album | Brutal Youth |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| this is hell | |
| Chorus： | |
| This is hell, this is hell | |
| I am sorry to tell you | |
| It never gets better or worse | |
| But you get used to it after a spell | |
| For heaven is hell in reverse | |
| The bruiser spun a hula hoop | |
| As all the barmen preen and pout | |
| The neon 'i' of nightclub flickers on and off | |
| And finally blew out | |
| The irritating jingle | |
| Of the belly-dancing phony turkish girls | |
| The eerie glare of ultra violet | |
| Perfect dental work | |
| Chorus | |
| The failed don juan in the big bow-tie | |
| Is very sorry that he spoke | |
| For he's mislaid his punch line | |
| More than halfway through a very tasteless joke | |
| The fr酳lein caught him peeking down her gown | |
| He's yelling in her ear | |
| And all at once the music stopped | |
| As he was intimately bellowing 'my dear . . .' | |
| Chorus | |
| The shirt you wore with courage | |
| And the violent nylon suit | |
| Reappear upon your back | |
| And undermine the polished line you try to shoot | |
| It's not the torment of the flames | |
| That finally see your flesh corrupted | |
| It's the small humiliations that your memory piles up | |
| This is hell, this is hell, this is hell. | |
| 'my favourite things' are playing | |
| Again and again | |
| But it's by julie andrews | |
| And not by john coltrane | |
| Endless balmy breezes and perfect sunsets framed | |
| Vintage wine for breakfast | |
| And naked starlets floating in champagne | |
| All the passions of your youth | |
| Are tranquillized and tamed | |
| You may think it looks familiar | |
| Though you may know it by another name | |
| Chorus | |
| This is hell, this is hell. |
| this is hell | |
| Chorus: | |
| This is hell, this is hell | |
| I am sorry to tell you | |
| It never gets better or worse | |
| But you get used to it after a spell | |
| For heaven is hell in reverse | |
| The bruiser spun a hula hoop | |
| As all the barmen preen and pout | |
| The neon ' i' of nightclub flickers on and off | |
| And finally blew out | |
| The irritating jingle | |
| Of the bellydancing phony turkish girls | |
| The eerie glare of ultra violet | |
| Perfect dental work | |
| Chorus | |
| The failed don juan in the big bowtie | |
| Is very sorry that he spoke | |
| For he' s mislaid his punch line | |
| More than halfway through a very tasteless joke | |
| The fr yin lein caught him peeking down her gown | |
| He' s yelling in her ear | |
| And all at once the music stopped | |
| As he was intimately bellowing ' my dear . . .' | |
| Chorus | |
| The shirt you wore with courage | |
| And the violent nylon suit | |
| Reappear upon your back | |
| And undermine the polished line you try to shoot | |
| It' s not the torment of the flames | |
| That finally see your flesh corrupted | |
| It' s the small humiliations that your memory piles up | |
| This is hell, this is hell, this is hell. | |
| ' my favourite things' are playing | |
| Again and again | |
| But it' s by julie andrews | |
| And not by john coltrane | |
| Endless balmy breezes and perfect sunsets framed | |
| Vintage wine for breakfast | |
| And naked starlets floating in champagne | |
| All the passions of your youth | |
| Are tranquillized and tamed | |
| You may think it looks familiar | |
| Though you may know it by another name | |
| Chorus | |
| This is hell, this is hell. |
| this is hell | |
| Chorus: | |
| This is hell, this is hell | |
| I am sorry to tell you | |
| It never gets better or worse | |
| But you get used to it after a spell | |
| For heaven is hell in reverse | |
| The bruiser spun a hula hoop | |
| As all the barmen preen and pout | |
| The neon ' i' of nightclub flickers on and off | |
| And finally blew out | |
| The irritating jingle | |
| Of the bellydancing phony turkish girls | |
| The eerie glare of ultra violet | |
| Perfect dental work | |
| Chorus | |
| The failed don juan in the big bowtie | |
| Is very sorry that he spoke | |
| For he' s mislaid his punch line | |
| More than halfway through a very tasteless joke | |
| The fr yìn lein caught him peeking down her gown | |
| He' s yelling in her ear | |
| And all at once the music stopped | |
| As he was intimately bellowing ' my dear . . .' | |
| Chorus | |
| The shirt you wore with courage | |
| And the violent nylon suit | |
| Reappear upon your back | |
| And undermine the polished line you try to shoot | |
| It' s not the torment of the flames | |
| That finally see your flesh corrupted | |
| It' s the small humiliations that your memory piles up | |
| This is hell, this is hell, this is hell. | |
| ' my favourite things' are playing | |
| Again and again | |
| But it' s by julie andrews | |
| And not by john coltrane | |
| Endless balmy breezes and perfect sunsets framed | |
| Vintage wine for breakfast | |
| And naked starlets floating in champagne | |
| All the passions of your youth | |
| Are tranquillized and tamed | |
| You may think it looks familiar | |
| Though you may know it by another name | |
| Chorus | |
| This is hell, this is hell. |
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