| This supermarket aircon’s freezing man
|
| I’m feeling like I’m dying
|
| It’s a half hour after midnight
|
| And all the fluoros zapped my appetite
|
| It don’t make choosing easy
|
| I’m waiting for a sign
|
| Some miracle of marketing
|
| To save me from these aisles
|
| Then it’s omega man amnesia
|
| In the narrow night time streets
|
| That capsize in their puddles
|
| With their storm clouds and their sleeps
|
| Discreet wet dreams and nightmares
|
| Seclusion, side by side
|
| The world’s way too connected
|
| And all anybody does is fight
|
| Staging their crypto inquisitions
|
| All in multiple choice, like:
|
| Anything that screws you’s
|
| Surely sured up by its bulk and…
|
| A: better organised?
|
| B: better mobilised?
|
| C: getting monetised?
|
| D: can’t be criticised?
|
| You better hold on
|
| And get it right
|
| You better hold on
|
| The whole world’s gonna pass you by
|
| Oh how why
|
| Time seems to fly
|
| Oh how why
|
| Life passed me by
|
| Take me on a holiday
|
| Put me on an aeroplane
|
| I wanna BMW
|
| I wanna be immortal in my lifetime too
|
| There’s a stone wall ‘round a citadel
|
| There’s a city made of glass
|
| Certain pasts want certain futures
|
| Certain futures certain pasts
|
| And there’s a building site on Sesame Street
|
| All party donor-backed
|
| It’s all footlong sub divisions
|
| Built so cheap they won’t outlast
|
| Your disapproval or their doormats
|
| Built by the sycophants
|
| Of plutocrats and idiots big on
|
| Firm handshakes and eye contact
|
| The water pressure’s pitiless and all the restaurants shut by eight
|
| The walls are made of plywood
|
| When they should be armour plate
|
| You better hold on
|
| Its gonna fly
|
| Here comes a letter to the occupant
|
| Here comes the caveat — an eye for an eye
|
| Oh how why
|
| You know the end is nigh
|
| So take me on a holiday
|
| Put me on an aeroplane
|
| Just take me on a holiday
|
| And put me on an aeroplane
|
| Oh how time
|
| Where we going now?
|
| To that terrace over Rio
|
| With a bougainvillea vines
|
| Where the heat finally nailed me
|
| So we stayed the extra night
|
| And then the guard up in the watchtower
|
| Charged with keeping out the fighting
|
| Joked the difference between sexes
|
| All boils down to their handwriting
|
| And when we checked out the next morning
|
| We were on a first name basis
|
| But then he had the kind of features
|
| Where you can’t recall his face
|
| But it wouldn’t have been that much later he saw God’s
|
| ‘Cause he died staring up the nostrils
|
| Of a UPP shotgun
|
| He couldn’t hold on
|
| He couldn’t fly
|
| Wrong place wrong time is something of an understatement
|
| The world went passed him by
|
| Oh how why
|
| Time seems to fly
|
| Oh how why
|
| Where we going now? |