| Sorry, busy being a king
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| Suck the guts out the city leaving the skin
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| You ain’t my lover, you’re Billie Jean, you’re a fling
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| You’re a piglet in East London with skinny jeans and a trim
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| I had every statue in the square mile sobbing
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| The rust covered their eyes like bubbles of blood clotting
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| As I occupied a basement bar in a burning building
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| And sat at the back mumbling, wondering who’s shotting
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| Better act right, flies all drowning in my flat white
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| My skull gets heavy but I pack light
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| See you on the runway, you’re in for a bad flight
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| God is on your stairwell, polishing a crack pipe
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| Turn it off, babe, it’s a rerun
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| These ice cold streets got your feet numb
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| I been taking heads off, holla if you need one
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| Careful with the stitches, tell 'em
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| Every trip back to my city is fraught with the same dangers
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| Little Timmy arrives with a bag of them game changer
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| Spikes your glass of red with a couple of haymakers
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| And you come to in a brothel in Romford a day later
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| We’ve all been there
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| Set up camp, fought a battle, lost a limb there
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| Came back swinging and ran for office
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| I’m counting on your support, you’d better all have your wallets
|
| We skittered round to the back with a bucket and drank the profits
|
| So meet my reality starved friend
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| We watch them all die just glad that we aren’t them
|
| He screamed «All hail humanity, amen»
|
| As he sat and bit the head of a battery farmed hen
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| 'Cause shit can all change at an uncomfortable pace
|
| In Gatwick blinded by lights lugging a case and it hit me
|
| Shoosh, they’re all undercovers Jake
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| Evil hags keeping tabs on your drug intake
|
| Elderly women with guns in their wastebands for you
|
| Stare down from the balcony firing until their hands are blue
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| Tears fell from the ceiling, we sat back and we drank a few
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| Holding a rubber mask without a face to attach it to
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| Wind up dolls
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| In little toy cars
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| In frilly white bibs
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| Lacking any scarce
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| My skin’s got too many sharp edges
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| Intruders skewered on barbed fences
|
| Your brain slumbers on too many park benches
|
| Can’t see you in these dark trenches
|
| We tore their eyes out calmly and fed the lions
|
| You built your line up nicely and fed your clients
|
| I’ll be at departure nursing a Martini
|
| And my bag just contains a selection of Red Hawaiians
|
| Legionnarie with a gun and a gold beret
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| Surviving on a diet of cider and cold penny
|
| If I said I hated you after a couple beers
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| Just text me a couple tears and save me the whole essay
|
| 95 percent of my brain is marked N/A
|
| I’ll carve the rest off and feed it to him at once
|
| He stared at the plate while she was chewing the chunks
|
| So he was at yard crying while she was hoovering bumps
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| Every night, born again, leave me be, talk to them, kicked out street
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| Can someone tell 'em we’re important men
|
| Please miss, ignore my friend
|
| He must be on that awful stuff
|
| I’m threatening him with sedatives
|
| One day he’ll call my bluff
|
| I whisper «kids stick around I’ll make you famous»
|
| Just fatten up a touch and you’ll play every stage in Vegas
|
| We’ll now present a human who can make his past disappear
|
| Saw himself cleaning half and eat a plate of razors
|
| But now I drag and dribbling hound through rolling mountains
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| Under a thick vermilion sky that just falls around him
|
| And it’s funny how your innards can fuck with your whole surroundings
|
| That’s a plastic toy wrestler giving your soul a pounding
|
| Is it you, (Is it you?), in that poorly built confession booth?
|
| On your 1s tugging at your tongue yelling ‘tell the truth'
|
| Son, can’t the devil lend you a helping hoof, he’s only over there cross legged
|
| in a velvet suit
|
| I stood still, underneath a linen sheet, swiftly whisked softly by an invalid
|
| with gritted teeth, screaming ‘gather round' cause we’re exhibiting the
|
| finished piece, covered in blue bruises and oozing with fried chicken grease
|
| Permanent swarm of bugs around a head
|
| A pack of gurned up horses couldn’t drag it out of bed, it cried ‘flee your
|
| houses, every man in town is dead' I just clicked my heels and cracked a dragon
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| stout instead |