|
Based on a book based on his life |
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A song I was hired to write |
|
I stole every line and plot device |
|
From his journal that I read at night |
|
The characters were all stiff robotic whores |
|
But there was one intriguing role |
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The slick missionary with a penchant for stealing and |
|
Hypnotising the |
|
Girls with boys' names and boys with girls' frames |
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So I set to work with my blueprint |
|
And the aim of a dead poet's pen |
|
I filled my prescription and then |
|
A cold war, bible like tyrant was calling my name |
|
He told me needed someone to detail each moment |
|
His history, the ink started flowing |
|
He first took drugs in '84 |
|
But he's never been the same as before |
|
It's the fault of the suburbs, prog rock and his mum |
|
She still calls him all the time |
|
To see if he's failing 'cause nothing keeps it's shape when |
|
Tempted each day |
|
By European ways, speed freaks and strays |
|
It's so hard to say |
|
If nature has more than a sick sense of humour |
|
A cold war bible black tyrant was taking my hand |
|
He told me he needed someone to proof read each sentence |
|
A dead language, the ink started flowing |
|
He told me it felt like a whirlwind of heat |
|
Just east of Juarez, a border town soiree |
|
He knew it before he could breathe |
|
The air was filled with the smell of baby's breath |
|
Stale sex and baby's breath |
|
It feels like he's failing, 'cause nothing keeps its shape |
|
When tempted each day |
|
By heartfelt inscriptions and sinking convictions |
|
A cold war bible black tyrant was calling my name |
|
He told me he needed someone to detail each moment |
|
His history, the ink started flowing |
