Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Bishonen, artist - Momus.
Date of issue: 18.08.2016
Song language: English
Bishonen |
I was born in the town of Paisley in early 1960 |
And placed in the care of an old eternal bachelor |
A strict disciplinarian, a passionate antiquarian |
His collection of myths and legends was spectacular |
As a younger man he’d been to see Japan |
Where a master in a white kimono taught him |
In a shining moment the myth of the bishonen |
The youthful hero doomed to fall like blossom |
And how could I forgive the ugly fugitive |
Who brought me up according to a fantasy? |
For when the old man stared at me |
He drowned in evil beauty |
Thinking of the early death in store for me |
He taught me to be good with words, he bought me ceremonial swords |
And in this way came grace and expertise |
The words were to cut down and to kill the muscle-bound |
The swords to fell my intellectual enemies |
And women should be hated but first impersonated |
Charm, he said, is essential to misogyny |
He taught me how to woo the girls in order to outdo the girls |
And the fun would come when I’d got them to love me |
And how could I resist the old misogynist |
Who brought me up according to a fantasy? |
My softness and fragility |
My feminine grace and delicacy |
Made death himself afraid for me |
And so in time I grew to be blond and beautiful |
Pale and frail, with many male admirers |
I was promised by my father a retainer for a partner |
So loyal that nothing could divide us |
Shocked by my suggestion that I’d rather have a woman |
My stepfather replied I had no choice |
This man would cut his entrails open protecting his bishonen |
He informed me in a solemn, trembling voice |
How could I disobey that surreptitious gay |
Who brought me up according to a fantasy? |
For when the old man stared at me |
He drowned in evil beauty |
Thinking of the early death in store for me |
So me and my retainer encountered many dangers |
On travels through the North and through the South |
We ripped open the bellies of many famous bullies |
And our reputation spread by word of mouth |
In the mountains of Morocco we stopped and shared a bottle |
With a blind old man with a bearded, bandaged face |
And though the sun had sunk and the man was very drunk |
He seemed to speak with my stepfather’s voice |
Saying «How could you forget the aging martinet |
Who brought you up according to a fantasy? |
Your softness and fragility |
Your feminine grace and delicacy |
Will be the death of me» |
Surprised at 28 to find myself so late |
Changing from a boy into a man |
I’m starting to feel guilty that nobody has killed me |
Early as my stepfather had planned |
I’ve found myself a girl and stopped roaming the world |
My retainer’s gone to be a mercenary |
Now I work in a merchant bank, I’m well-liked by the senior ranks |
Though behind my back the juniors call me fairy |
And how can I placate the ugly reprobate |
Who brought me up according to a fantasy? |
For when the old man stared at me |
He drowned in evil beauty |
Thinking of the early death in store for me |
I stay awake some nights when my wife turns off the lights |
And starts breathing regularly next to me |
And I think of fallen petals and bodies pierced by metal |
And how I’ll never now fulfill my destiny |
Father spare my shame, let me pass my name |
To a boy with greater beauty and more bravery |
For if I have a son I’m going to raise him to die young |
And lay him in the grave that you prepared for me |