1. |
It's Your Hair
03:26
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Words:
I’m only interested in one thing
The sacred writings of the evil emperor Ming
He’s put a sugar Brahmin in my mouth
With just one kiss he could redecorate your boathouse
But I can’t get drunk on your love
I just get stung on your hugs
I can’t get drunk on your love
I just get stung on your hugs
I’ve got a fridge the size of Norway
You’d have it full of Gertrude Stein if you had your way
I have my people buy a special brand of soap
Cleanses the places that I’d dearly like your hands to go
But I can’t get drunk on your love
I just get stung on your hugs
No I can’t get drunk on your love
I just get stung on your hugs
I’m only interested in you
I’m only interested in everything you do
Wanna come down with your flu
It’s your hair and nobody else’s hair I want to chew
I’m only interested in you
I’m only interested in everything you do
I get sticky from your surplus glue
It’s your hair and no-one else’s hair I want to chew
I’m only interested in you
I’m only interested in everything you do
Wanna come down with your flu
It’s your hair and no-one else’s hair I want to chew
It’s your hair
It’s your hair
It’s your hair
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2. |
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Words:
That unexpected blood clot, no matter how banal
And I could end up dying in this town
Or tumbling blotto head first into the canal
And I could end up dying in this town
That funny smell of burning I neglected for so long
A murderous delegation of the women I have wronged
Or crushed to death by cheap tinned soup I hoarded by the ton
Yeah, I’ve already lived here far too long
I could die happy on my yacht in San Tropez
So long
Or freedom fighting in the Palestine campaign
Far too long
My own wicker effigy up in the Scottish isles
So long
Expiring in Miami in my art deco pile
Some crude provincial sex game played with oranges and scarves
And I could end up dying in this town
Some local bus stop no-mark wants to show his mates he’s hard
And I could end up dying in this town
Or drown in supermarket Saint Emilion
Or lose my mind on mushrooms in my search for Avalon
Or fly headlong down the staircase having tripped on my sarong
Yeah, I’ve already lived here far too long
I could die happy on my yacht in San Tropez
So long
Or freedom fighting in the Palestine campaign
Far too long
My own wicker effigy up in the Scottish isles
So long
Decaying in Miami in my art deco pile
I could get shanked by car park homophobes who think my face looks wrong
Or some verminous wee tumour growin’ where it don’t belong
Torn limb from limb by cockerpoos whose owners hate my song
Yeah, I’ve already lived here far too long
I could die happy on my yacht in San Tropez
So long
Or freedom fighting in the Palestine campaign
Far too long
My own wicker effigy up in the Scottish isles
So long
Croaking in Miami in my art deco pile
Far too long
Some Brooklyn wise guy popping caps into my ass
So long
Save me a plot in the Cimetière du Montparnasse
Roll over, Serge
I’m coming home
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3. |
Kolley Kibber
04:17
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Words:
Man of the people, Mister Cummings
Well, I’ve been trying to read your mind
I sense you’ve got a plan for me
And my particular talents
Pierre Bourdieu – he’s on the line
He say he’ll hold, he’s doing fine
On the other side from me
In his clinic in Paris
He always said he could sense
Twenty marks of privilege
And there’s your telltale fingerprints
On the pastis bottle in his fridge
And your diplomatic number plates
Just seem a trifle rich
Pack up that Landy, drive away
Man of the people, Tommy Robinson
Look at the frescos on your wall
They say it all, we think they’re swell
In all their monochrome glory
Paul from the Jam just sent this fax
You’ve got his licks, he wants them back
I’m sitting comfortably, let’s begin
Your unbelievable story
I always knew I could smell
Twenty scents of privilege
And there’s a bum note in your cologne
That really makes my eyeballs twitch
And what plays well on B Wing
Won’t help you get down with the kids
Back up to Luton with you, Tom
I didn’t get the education to escape a proper job
When all I ever wanted was to be an art school snob
But I have learned to live with it – can you live with it, Bob?
Hey, Bobby, where’s my backstage pass?
Man of the people, mister Laurence
Tell us that rags to riches tale
It never fails to make us smile
When you do the faces and voices
You say that you were raised by Foxes
What’s in a species or a name?
You’re not to blame, you never are
For your ridiculous choices
I always thought I could tell
Twenty shades of privilege
But I fell down the rabbit hole
When I stumbled on your YouTube vids
And I couldn’t help but be impressed
At how your foxhounds tear apart a snitch
I think it’s time I called you out:
So I say… You are Kolley Kibber and I demand my five pound note..!!
Yes, Laurence, you are Kolley Kibber and I demand my five pound note..!!
And Tommy, you also are Kolley Kibber and I demand my five-pound note..!!
And Dominic, you are Kolley Kibber and I demand my five-pound note right now…
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4. |
What Doesn't Kill Me
03:53
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Words:
What doesn’t kill me
Maybe kills somebody else
The viper meant for me
Finds someone else’s trouser leg
And what doesn’t kill me
Tears my confidence to shreds
Touching down in Reykjavik
In my Kevlar vest
What doesn’t kill me
Means another mouth to feed
Generations of entitlement
An eternity of greed
Have I shown you greed..?
‘Cos I could show you greed.
What doesn’t kill me
Makes me cold and self-obsessed
Have you met my brother, Abel?
(He bores me half to death)
What doesn’t kill me
Leaves me slightly less humane
Tedious at parties
Impervious to pain
What doesn’t kill me
Makes me arrogant and stupid
Fond of flags and guns and
People equally deluded
Sometimes it’s fun to be deluded
Let’s do it together. Let’s be deluded.
What doesn’t kill me
Makes me an affront to God
Suicidal hubris
From a dull provincial clod
What doesn’t kill me
Maybe kills me after all
My shrapnel moves an inch and it’s
Goodnight, Vienna
What doesn’t kill me
Maybe wasn’t even there
I’m pretty sure you skewered me
But couldn’t really swear
And I don’t know if I really care
Well…
I’d take a bullet for the queen of Holland
I’ll take a bullet for a glimpse of the future
I’ll take a bullet for the price of a coffee
(I take mine with Sweet 'n Low)
I’ll take a bullet for the president-elect
I’d take a bullet for the Carabinieri
I’d take a bullet for Lazlo the Moondog
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
I’d take a bullet for the horn section
I’d take a bullet for the bugs on the windshield
I’d take a bullet for the Spanish Amanda
NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO..!!
I’d take a bullet for a cure for veruccas
I’d take a bullet for an hour with Costello
I’d take a bullet for a ticket to Swansea
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
And I’d take a bullet for you
I’d take your bullet
I’d take a bullet for you
Can I choose which bit it goes through?
I’d take a bullet for the six-fingered man
And I’d take a bullet for you
What doesn’t kill me, kills me
What doesn’t kill me makes me me
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The Spanish Amanda England, UK
The SpanAm: at it since the 90's & still UTTERLY UNCORRUPTED by success, recognition or
fame..!!
(PS - *PLEASE* go visit our 'little sister' band, the Chickpea Darlings - thechickpeadarlings.bandcamp.com - they're completely divine...)
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