
Date of issue: 05.12.2019
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: High Focus
Song language: English
Red Hawaiian |
Sorry, busy being a king |
Suck the guts out the city leaving the skin |
You ain’t my lover, you’re Billie Jean, you’re a fling |
You’re a piglet in East London with skinny jeans and a trim |
I had every statue in the square mile sobbing |
The rust covered their eyes like bubbles of blood clotting |
As I occupied a basement bar in a burning building |
And sat at the back mumbling, wondering who’s shotting |
Better act right, flies all drowning in my flat white |
My skull gets heavy but I pack light |
See you on the runway, you’re in for a bad flight |
God is on your stairwell, polishing a crack pipe |
Turn it off, babe, it’s a rerun |
These ice cold streets got your feet numb |
I been taking heads off, holla if you need one |
Careful with the stitches, tell 'em |
Every trip back to my city is fraught with the same dangers |
Little Timmy arrives with a bag of them game changer |
Spikes your glass of red with a couple of haymakers |
And you come to in a brothel in Romford a day later |
We’ve all been there |
Set up camp, fought a battle, lost a limb there |
Came back swinging and ran for office |
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 |
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 |
'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 |
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 |
Tears fell from the ceiling, we sat back and we drank a few |
Holding a rubber mask without a face to attach it to |
Wind up dolls |
In little toy cars |
In frilly white bibs |
Lacking any scarce |
My skin’s got too many sharp edges |
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 |
Surviving on a diet of cider and cold penny |
If I said I hated you after a couple beers |
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 |
Every night, born again, leave me be, talk to them, kicked out street |
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 |
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 |
stout instead |
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