| I am not a crutch, although my knees are rife with woodworm
|
| And the mealworms I misheard for lunch are rotting in my guts
|
| With a childhood of fingernails that ripped my throat to shreds
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| A walk that chimes like church bells
|
| From all these loose joints in my legs
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| These three lions that were sitting on my chest
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| Are clawing hard into my skin as I am gasping for my breath
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| And as they each play noughts and crosses
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| On the scratches they have left
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| I have to screw up both my eyes as it goes into sudden death
|
| They whisper, «Really all these noughts are circles holed, bereft
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| And all these crosses, crucifixes
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| Spreading guilt and sense of dread»
|
| And as we stumbled homeward up the hill
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| To where you used to live
|
| The cold makes ice upon our cheeks
|
| From all the tears that we have shed
|
| These things rattle 'round my head
|
| If he hasn’t blown the whistle
|
| Then it isn’t quite the end
|
| Every defeat a divorce
|
| Although I look surprised, it’s par for the course, I guess
|
| Every defeat a divorce
|
| Although I look surprised, it’s par for the course, I guess
|
| And I don’t really know now what I thought I knew then
|
| You can lead a horse to water, but it won’t drown itself
|
| This one family photograph always floats to the top
|
| Like a beaming, bloated corpse, though having been made up
|
| My memories are sepia, but the photograph is not
|
| An historian is fucking with them, as deadly as garrotte
|
| Where they’re standing in the kitchen
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| With his arms around her waist
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| With no idea of what’s to come and with a smile across your face
|
| And all the fittings are the same but every other thing has changed
|
| Must forget everything you know
|
| As though your mouth and tongue estranged
|
| Small comforts found in ABBA Gold and electronic chess
|
| When West Clewes was my Waterloo, my most dramatic test
|
| Now I’ve been walking down the shortcuts
|
| And the alleys in the dark
|
| Because I’m not scared of the shadows
|
| They’re no blacker than my heart
|
| These things rattle 'round my head
|
| If he hasn’t blown the whistle
|
| Then it isn’t quite the end
|
| Every defeat a divorce
|
| Although I look surprised, it’s par for the course, I guess
|
| Every defeat a divorce
|
| Although I look surprised, it’s par for the course, I guess
|
| But how could I ever refuse?
|
| I feel like I lose when I lose
|
| And I don’t even know now what I thought I knew then
|
| You can lead a horse to water, but it won’t drown itself |