|
Beck |
|
Mutations |
|
Tropicalia |
|
when they beat |
|
on a broken guitar |
|
and on the streets |
|
they reek of tropical charms |
|
the embassies lie in hideous shards |
|
where tourists snore and decay |
|
when they dance in a reptile blaze |
|
you wear a mask |
|
an equatorial haze |
|
into the past |
|
a colonial maze |
|
where there's no more confetti to throw |
|
you didn't know what to say to yourself |
|
love is a poverty you couldn't sell |
|
misery waiting in vague hotels |
|
to be evicted |
|
you're out of luck |
|
you're singing funeral songs |
|
to the studs |
|
they're anabolic and bronze |
|
they seem to strut |
|
in their millennial fogs |
|
'til they fall down and deflate |
|
you didn't know what to say to yourself |
|
love is a poverty you couldn't sell |
|
misery waiting in vague hotels |
|
to be evicted |
|
now you've had your fun |
|
under an air-conditioned sun |
|
it's burned into your eyes |
|
leaves you plain and left behind |
|
see them eyes and fall |
|
into the jaws of a pestilent love |
|
you didn't know what to say to yourself |
|
love is a poverty you couldn't sell |
|
misery waiting in vague hotels |
|
to be a victim |
