Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Fugazi, artist - Fish. Album song Fish Heads Club, in the genre Иностранный рокDate of issue: 31.12.2012
Record label: Derek W Dick
Song language: English
Fugazi |
| Vodka intimate, an affair with isolation in a Blackheath cell |
| Extinguishing the fires in a private hell |
| Provoking the heartache to renew the licence |
| Of a bleeding heart poet in a fragile capsule |
| Propping up the crust of the glitter conscience |
| Wrapped in the christening shawl of a hangover |
| Baptised in the tears from the real |
| Drowning in the liquid seas on the Piccadilly line |
| Rat race scuttling through the damp electric labyrinth |
| Caress Ophelia’s hand with breaststroke ambition |
| An albatross in the maritime tradition |
| Sheathed within the Walkman, wear the halo of distortion |
| Aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation |
| She turned the harpoon and it pierced my heart |
| She hung herself around my neck |
| From the Time-Life-Guardians in their conscience bubbles |
| Safe and dry in my sea of troubles |
| Nine to five with suitable ties |
| Cast adrift as their side-show, peepshow, stereo hero |
| Becalm bestill, bewitch, drowning in the real |
| The thief of Baghdad hides in Islington now |
| Praying deportation for his sacred cow |
| A legacy of romance from a twilight world |
| The dowry of a relative mystery girl |
| A Vietnamese flower, a Dockland union |
| A mistress of release from a magazine’s thighs |
| Magdalenes contracts more than favours |
| The feeding hands of western promise hold her by the throat |
| A son of a swastika of '45 parading a peroxide standard |
| Graffiti disciples conjure testaments of hatred |
| Aerosol wands whisper where the searchlights trim the barbed wire hedges |
| This is Brixton chess |
| A knight for Embankment folds his newspaper castle |
| A creature of habit, begs the boatman’s coin |
| He’ll fade with old soldiers in the grease stained roll call |
| And linger with the heartburn of Good Friday’s last supper |
| Son watches father scan obituary columns in search of absent school friends |
| While his generation digests high fibre ignorance |
| Cowering behind curtains and the taped up painted windows |
| Decriminalised genocide, provided door to door Belsens |
| Pandora’s box of holocausts gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens |
| Waiting, the season of the button, the penultimate migration |
| Radioactive perfumes, for the fashionably, for the terminally insane, insane |
| Do you realise? |
| Do you realise? |
| Do you realise, this world is totally fugazi |
| Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets |
| To breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary |