| As you lie there on your bed
|
| Beneath the face of louise brooks
|
| With your makeup and your teddy bear
|
| And your C. S. Lewis books
|
| Bad seed
|
| You’re a bad seed
|
| You’re a decadent in chrysalis
|
| Waiting sleepily to emerge
|
| When you’ll visit every seedy need
|
| Of your random obsessive urge
|
| All the ruses that you use
|
| All the food that you refuse
|
| All the dust and tired air that feeds interior lulus
|
| All the poisoned attitudes
|
| And the lust for the unknown
|
| And the second best that devils use
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| To make this world their own
|
| Interior lulu
|
| Interior lulu
|
| Every rainy day by e-mail
|
| As you lie there on your bed
|
| Another virtual page arrives
|
| There will be times when you remember me
|
| Of the chapters you’ll be writing
|
| As the voices echo in your head
|
| In the book called wasted lives
|
| As you read Henry and Anaïs
|
| All the lost weekends and booze
|
| All the finger-and-thumb screws
|
| All the sleepless worn out blues that bruise interior lulus
|
| Interior lulu
|
| Interior lulu
|
| Use the anger
|
| Paint a picture of it
|
| Throw the colours
|
| Use the pain, use the pain
|
| Scream back a brand new emotion
|
| As it runs across the skin
|
| Fire across paper
|
| Burn and curl, burn and curl
|
| You thought you couldn’t feel like this
|
| But it’s happening again and you’re waking up in pain
|
| Tattooed in that private place
|
| Microsoft and tears
|
| Intimately pierced
|
| Discovering and remembering
|
| You felt like this somewhere before
|
| Stirrin' up the bed of the river
|
| Somewhere you don’t like to go
|
| You wrote this down so many times
|
| But you get up anyway and you write it down again
|
| You’ve bored us all to death with this
|
| Well who you gonna tell
|
| When you’ve nothing left to sell
|
| She says she’s lonely
|
| She says she knows me
|
| But she’s a one-way street
|
| She told me what I already know
|
| «if you can carry it out you can take it away
|
| If you can carry it out you can take it away
|
| If you can buy it, it can be bought
|
| If you can buy it, it can be stolen
|
| If you can break it
|
| It’s already broken»
|
| Lately, I can stand to hear other people talking
|
| So many empty conversations
|
| What a waste of lips
|
| Lately I can stand to stand on primrose hill
|
| Look down upon the city
|
| A heart pumping the roads
|
| In our racing stripes
|
| We rejoice at being «connected»
|
| Without touching
|
| Thank God for the internet
|
| We stare at our screens
|
| All our lives
|
| What a waste of eyes
|
| 'till the electrical storm blows our fuses
|
| And we gaze, dumbfounded, at the rain
|
| All the trust and tired care
|
| Left to rust and go nowhere
|
| All this gold beneath my skin
|
| Sparklin' like sin somewhere within
|
| In so deep
|
| In so deep that
|
| I can’t sleep for these interior lu lu lu lu lus |