| So OK
|
| You think I’m some kind of
|
| Semolina-headed
|
| Fired and fettered
|
| Little virgin
|
| Well, that’s OK with me
|
| One arm in the ashtray
|
| One arm around your neck
|
| Pulling you across the six-weeks sheets to me
|
| Oh! |
| You see
|
| Oh! |
| You see
|
| I could be a walking one-man career
|
| For some psychiatrist
|
| It’s true
|
| I’m open to everyone
|
| Unique to a few
|
| What about you?
|
| Yeah! |
| How about you?
|
| A sleaze burger
|
| Grease grimer
|
| Eyeliner
|
| Whiner
|
| Up to your ears in a mecca of broken dreams
|
| Only just getting by
|
| With another calculated lie
|
| Your lobotomy eyes
|
| Tell me a million different versions
|
| Of what you’ve seen
|
| And what you’ve been
|
| Trying to dodge the shadows
|
| Of the lights upon the tarmac
|
| Desperation kicks me to the kill
|
| 'Cos baby
|
| I’m waiting at the station
|
| For my train to ruination
|
| Just trying to find a way to cheat the bill
|
| If they hit you on one cheek
|
| Then smash them on the other
|
| It’s a knuckle-duster path
|
| We walk to survive
|
| Pinch yourself and shake the sand out of the seams
|
| As the time
|
| To climb out of the litter bin arrives
|
| Loose limbed and lycra lipped
|
| My lipsalve sticks on you
|
| Blitzed and bomber bug eye
|
| Bite the soft skin on the inside
|
| Resist the watering sensation
|
| To bite my way right through
|
| Bite my way right through you
|
| I’m gonna bite my way right through you
|
| All washed up and nowhere to go
|
| All washed up and nowhere to go
|
| Nowhere to go
|
| Nowhere to go
|
| Nowhere to go
|
| I gotta go go go
|
| I’m gonna go go go
|
| The kitchen smells
|
| Smoked and burnt and up
|
| Stale milk and
|
| Rotten peel across the floor
|
| Watch you with admiration
|
| As you get yourself together
|
| To peel the damp dried
|
| Teabags off the wall
|
| Salvage up some sugar
|
| To sweeten up together
|
| From the bugs that bite
|
| Escaping from the bed
|
| Love this riddled ruin
|
| Be the bag to hide my head in
|
| And walk the weary way
|
| To desolation day, instead
|
| We’re waiting at the station
|
| For our train to ruination
|
| Who cares the destination!
|
| Who cares if we arrive
|
| The smell of us
|
| The damp
|
| That eats the bathroom round the tiles
|
| Something tells me
|
| We’ve been here all the time |