| You’ve got your clukes in me
|
| Our legs locked at right angles
|
| Should scatter like pigeons
|
| But I’ll stay here and make sweat with you
|
| And kick my own guts out
|
| Lose a pint of self respect
|
| Statued and sellotaped
|
| Tongue-tied and desolate
|
| Blow unlucky eyelashes and hide the stray hairs
|
| Or should we just give up
|
| Take backward bounds and leaps
|
| And sit and shy shiver while
|
| While the latest one sleeps
|
| Cry from the bedroom
|
| Clean all the blankets
|
| Spend your time wishing back an act that is thankless
|
| And those old fools have got nothing on me
|
| This is a monolith
|
| Can’t help but struggle with
|
| The will and the wayward old hat ideals
|
| The weight of the uniform and the way that it feels
|
| We can’t see round it and all the while we
|
| Cry from the bedroom
|
| Clean all the blankets
|
| Spend your time wishing back an act that is thankless
|
| And those old fools have got nothing on me
|
| And the distance maps out like the flag of a country
|
| I never knew
|
| And hay bales with eyes half shut like sheep on sleeping pills under the blue
|
| Now sink down you balsa wood box in your chair like
|
| It was the dirt
|
| I’m going home to certain death, to certain death
|
| It doesn’t have to be this way
|
| It doesn’t have to be this way
|
| It doesn’t have to be this way
|
| It doesn’t have to be this way
|
| Cry from the bedroom
|
| Clean all the blankets
|
| Spend your time wishing back an act that is thankless
|
| And those old fools have got nothing on me
|
| Those old fools have got nothing on me
|
| Those old fools have got nothing on me
|
| Those old fools have got nothing on me |