|
There'll be no songs about you |
|
Your deeds will remain untold |
|
The words that they use |
|
Leave you limp and confused |
|
And resigned to grow silently old |
|
You could handle a weapon |
|
You could lay down your life in a war |
|
But you're fat now and weakened |
|
By the code that they speak in |
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Not welcome in this land no more |
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But put on your shoes |
|
The fair lands are calling |
|
For the last man |
|
To fall toward them |
|
From the sun |
|
You've got boring unlovely depression |
|
It blunts you and hobbles your will |
|
It makes you feel sick |
|
To see these beautiful pricks |
|
Build careers being beautifully ill |
|
They flit and they flutter about you |
|
They're offended and never ashamed |
|
And everything's shit |
|
And this shithole called Britain |
|
Takes your sickness in place of your name |
|
But put on your shoes |
|
The fair lands are calling |
|
For the last man |
|
To fall toward them |
|
From the sun |
|
Put on your shoes |
|
Leave no letters behind you |
|
Leave the perfume |
|
And the dancing |
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And run |
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And I know it seems like there's no one |
|
And the street's too sweet to walk on |
|
And you'll break it with your boots if you go |
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And I know it seems like there's no one |
|
And if there is, then you don't know them |
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But I swear that there's someone |
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Somewhere |
|
Someone |
