Lyrics The Sticks - The Cool Greenhouse

The Sticks

Well you can go a bit nuts out here
Spending all day looking for your cigarettes or your glasses
Or plugged into high-minded conspiracy theories
About all the piano-playing cats
Trained by the government and uploaded by devious civil servants
To subdue your mind
I guess that’s why people say that musical pets
Are the new opiates of the masses
But just don’t forget
Nobody actually says that
And it’s true
The true oddballs are stationed in the market towns
And all you meet
Are ex-military personnel
With dark browsing histories
Or children’s entertainers
With questionable intentions
And all the village shops
And all the village shops are definitely manned by robots
So is this the kind of catharsis you were after?
Strange shapes appear in the mirror when you’re not there
And you can hear people’s skin crack at regular intervals
Oh, when the sun comes out
They’ve got your number
They’ll be seeing you
Better stay in from here on in
And sometimes when you close your eyes
There’s grinning Jimmy Saviles painted on your inner eyelids
Other times it’s Yoko Onos on treadmills
Stretching out into infinity
Or there’s Kermit the Frog doing up his flies
On the beach, on repeat
These things all reinforce the need
For a proper occupation
Find clipped toenails still growing near the basin
A little camera in the shape of a bit of eggshell in the bread bin
Surveillance wires disguised as bits of spaghetti
Down the side of the oven
Looks like the cleaner’s not working
Today the birds are flying unusually low to the ground
And the insects are flying unusually close to the clouds
There’s all sorts of inversions that you need to get your head around
Clerical workers are lurking in the long grass
With remote controls, dog shit bags and their sons
And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks
And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks
And God only knows, what they’ve been feeding the ducks
Make some elderflower wine, or some sourdough
Well that’s the kind of thing you’re meant to do around here
Wrap it up in old brown paper and you can sell it for a fortune
To all the city weekenders
If only you didn’t have the weird feeling
That your arm is not your arm
That your arm is not your arm
And the strange plants growing in the outcrop near the village
Have been plagiarising your dreams
And everything’s conducted in hushed tones
In the market towns