we are a cheap suit, we are a soup kitchen, we are a jam jar raised to the lips of a hipster sipping cocktails in some pale imitation gentrified joke. these pokey tales of failure, flavoured with sweet promise, curled around tongues tasting defeat as deep as a news anchors hot tub. the drunk girl on the bus attacks some crushed accomplice as we slip by all gold and red by the mad breadman pecked to pieces by the pigeons in the park. re-enacting the backstabbing of a best friend in front of a panel of industry big dogs while media power couples snog and hold hands under poster of post-war hollywood heartthrobs. yes, it can drift into something like a shopping channel at a wedding flirting with a chemical weapons expert. your music sounds like it’s made to be played in shopping arcades on bank holiday weekends - silly singer songwriters writing rhymes that read like middle class fridge doors. and when god looks the other way we’ll be playing babel fishh on cassette tape, running with scissors, standing naked at the window urinating on your parade.
they said we looked fed up and bored and they were dead right of course. girl being sick in a limousine, lonely lad walks around room. what was i to do? it won’t matter come the morning a glorious failure, a last blossom blown loose, the final tear, a tango, a sword fight - finding a scratch card in a british heart foundation purchased blazer in a warm winters day. and here’s another song about me taking myself too seriously throwing parting shots at lost children in super markets. and the river looked to be sleeping so still and deep. the ruins of a resort town and ten foot advertising slogans over faces. you don’t work your job your job works you... blah blah blithering idiot fool’s errand.