1. |
Chair
04:26
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She was sitting on a chair in the middle of the street
Then later she was there in the lift
When I couldn't find my keys, she had em in her hand
if she'd been in my flat, she hadn't left a gift
well I'm telling you just how it is
the government's responsible for this
I was looking for my wallet, when I found a patch
fumbling round for the switch
Someone had been through my underwear
and my sixth sense was starting to itch.
I'm giving you a feel, how it is
the government's responsible for this
Allies advise me to pull the blinds
she's never really gone, because the heating's on
my radio is tuned to a station on the moon
if these mysteries are true
deserters will never make it home
They lied in dispatch - there'll never be an end to the war
She dropped off a note with Ali from the deli
slipped between the lettuce in my wrap
you'd better not forget, they've frozen time
and my body clock's starting to tick
we're going to get our stories split
the government's responsible for this
My eyes, so tired when I pull the blinds
the aspidistra sways twitching side to side
there's been a breakthrough, perhaps news has got through
but if these mysteries are true
I'd be the last to be told
They lied in dispatch - there'll never be an end to the war
Surprise surprise when I pull the blinds
she's never really gone, because the heating's on
my radio is tuned to a station on the moon
and so if these mysteries are true
deserters will never make it home
They lied in dispatch - there'll never be an end to the war
An end to the war
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2. |
Vintage Vince
03:26
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A flash of ochre
a splash of red
a cut of lime
burgundy thread
Gotta love Vintage Vince
on the rack of shirts
he feels the width
he goes the extra leg
He's always happy
fifteen minutes to kill
scouring the crockery
In a charity thrill
Gotta love Vintage Vince
his hands smoothing ornaments
picking bone cutlery
in his natty twill
He makes the most
out of days of yore
when people made things to last
when style was king
of the city strides
he rakes his fingers through the mundane past
He's always jolly
with a gingery smile
looking for antiques
in the candlestick pile
He can suss out curtains
textiles are his bag
he knows his jewellery
in his charity swag
He makes his own style
from this and from that
churned out by the old-fashioned factories
where grandma worked
and grandad wooed
and uncle embroidered his everyday tales
Vintage Vince
has his soles nailed up
‘neath his Oxford brogues
He sure rocks the look
His spirit brightens up
the bagel queue
so pleased to see him,
he says 'how do'
Vintage Vince
has Trojan in his shoes
Euro pop
And the Moody Blues
the rarities
and the Northern soul
the jazzmatazz
the post war rock and roll
Vintage Vince
wants more – yes please
always a home
for more intricacies
of the avant garde
with the curling sax
somewhere Vince
will find a gap
in his bedsit
or his lock up
in his bedsit
or his lock up
he's a man with time and space for the whole wide universe
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3. |
Council
04:08
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I whistled to the waves on the open marsh
where sea spray etches the dune,
A seagull told me the way to go
I filled my cap with the fisherman's tune
I would say how do to the governors
and chat to the cormorant black
jumping my way to the Kilda's shop
licorice and sherbert lollypop snack.
A black cat showed me the line to take
and I followed its tail up the hill
there I could view our ruddy boat town
if it wasn't for Council I'd be there still.
When they set a guard on the water tap.
We waited till he'd gone home
Our mothers said 'Now Boys' so we rushed
to bathe our heads in clear clean foam.
In the war, a rocket flattened two cows
left a crater oh so wide
Broke our windows and knocked me down
you could fit two double deckers inside.
A black cat showed me the line to take
and I followed its tail up the hill
there I could view our ruddy boat town
if it wasn't for Council I'd be there still.
Mushrooms on the moorings, farm egg baps
red moon rising on furrowed furls
Warming our hands on paraffin lamps
Squeaking wheels, the kerosene man
coming right now with his rattling fuel
Back down the towpath with empty cans
the parrot screaming 'I love you'
A black cat showed me the line to take
and I followed its tail up the hill
there I could view our ruddy boat town
if it wasn't for Council I'd be there still.
We slip and float through our dinghy strides
while Rusty the kitten tumbles down.
Council is coming with his papery mitts
to improve our kipper boat town.
I dream of his face, big as a dog
staring mean mocking my soul.
We've got somewhere sensible to shut you in
let Council take control.
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4. |
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5. |
Mrs Brown
03:13
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Do not play with good Mrs Brown
a simple dame from mermaid town.
Her three part tongue will cut you down
she'll bind herself to you with her game.
Keep quiet no words as evening dies
You're allowed to grumble you can sob and sigh.
Don't speak no sense you'll tell no lies
she can't bind you to her with her game.
It's unearthly magic a conjurer's trick
it'll twist and trap them as fall for it
it'll catch even Romans in its net
she'll bind herself to you with her game.
Snail, snail come out of your shell
She'll whisper to you in a grinders' spell
She'll tease and smoke and flush you to hell
stay down silent in your hold.
There's a spirit in the ring there's a voice in the cup
and its looking for the ear that listens up
keep your purse quiet and don't stand up
stay down deep in your hole.
If the gentleman wind wants to call you out
or the rain hammers down the virgin's spout
or the hail hits your head like an iron clout
stay down silent in your hole.
Don't buy the thorns of a victim's crown
You'll have to follow sweet Mrs Brown
Dragged through the streets of Mermaid Town
she'll bind you to her with her game.
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6. |
Fleur Du Mal
03:41
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If you be my Fleur du Mal
I'll be your Baudelaire
Compose you verses in the bath
and stroke your salty hair.
I'm your empty skeleton
and you're my cutie mouse
you run around my bones and squeak
within my bodyhouse
We'll luxuriate in thoughts of death
Just like Baudelaire
Bohemians in reverie
who love to love despair
I'm your empty skeleton
and you're my cutie mouse
you run around my bones and squeak
within my bodyhouse
Outside the tempest storms and blows
while we laugh at the rain
together in the twilight dim
happy in our pain
Mon coeur, mon coeur, light your own lamp
and shine it round the room.
Lead me to the bitter end
where all the flowers bloom
I'm your empty skeleton
and you're my cutie mouse
you run around my bones and squeak
within my bodyhouse
I'm your empty skeleton
and you're my cutie mouse
you run around my bones and squeak
within my bodyhouse
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7. |
Hump
03:19
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It'll be a bit better just over this hump
I know it didn't work out well
We're back on the move and the sun's coming up
and this morning's got a good smell.
The hawthorn is blooming like a milk maid's skirt
and the traffic is swimming along.
I know that it's dirty in the back of the van
but hold on and it won't be long.
just over this hump
The sweets have gone sticky in the tin
but they've still got the sugar in, I like the feel
of the hard boiled nut on the tip of my tongue
hold on and it won't be long.
The flowers of the hedgerow, the worker bees,
the hum of the road as the bow bends good.
The flap of the winds and the coo of the birds,
Taking a break in the bluebell wood.
just over this hump
Our day is blessed with the hope of peace
and the air is jigging to the jib of the beat
New plans are written in the kettle of kings
there's another home for us stuck over the hill.
just over this hump
Our day is spiced with the taste of avens
alexanders and apples steaming on the dash.
The indicator's jerky but we'll turn off left
when we run out of money and the tank is spent.
And the tank is spent
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8. |
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She's dead and gone, let her be, let her be
She's dead and gone, peacefully, peacefully
She's dead and gone, I have to carry on
but Sunday's for sentimentality
Three roses and wine for her eyes, let her be
Three roses and wine for her eyes, peacefully
She's dead and gone, and we carry on
but Sunday's for sentimentality
I always sing alone in my turn, in my turn
I know all the ballads word for word, every word
They roll round the room, fall back and resume
But Sunday's for sentimentality
A strong breeze is blowing with the sun, with the sun
A strong breeze blows in from the South, from the South
Let's have one more song, for the soul that has gone
But Sunday's for sentimentality
Jal on, Jal on
Jal on, Jal on
Jal on, Jal on, Jal on
Tomorrow
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9. |
Big Man
04:12
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Big Man Big Love
Happiest on the road
One hand on the wheel
The other on the postcode
Brown eyes in the headlamps
kipping in the bypass camp
Keep it going for the Big Man
from the back it was your hair
winding round itself in curls
but it wasn't your wide face at all
And I thought I heard you say,
'It wasn't me this time, okay.'
Big Man, Big Man
A grey guitar case in your hand
and your shoes slashed open to the sand
I turn around when a door gets slammed
and I think I hear you say,
Give us a tune come on let's play
Big Man Big Love
Happiest on the road
One hand on the wheel
The other on the postcode
Buff the misty windscreen clearer
Brown eyes in the wing mirror
Keep it going for the Big Man
A jumper scrunched on the narrow seat
neighbours' cackle in the street
A crackle of news with a Portuguese treat
and I thought I heard you say
'I'm going to sleep in late today'
The acid rains and the glaciers melt
your trousers falling for need of a belt
a crumpled T-shirt that really smells
and I thought I heard you say
'I'll have that one if you can pay'
The biggest shadow in the Western world
the greatest smile since flowers unfurled
blowing in the wind of the underworld
and I thought I heard you say
'this tune is one we have to play'
Big Man Big Love
Happiest on the road
One hand on the wheel
and the other on his heart
Sons of rest at the end of days
Brown eyes searching in the flames
Keep it going for the Big Man
Keep it going for the Big Man
Keep it going for the Big Man
Big Man Big Love
Oh, keep it going for the Big Man
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10. |
Grey Wolf
03:29
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Grey wolf, hold out your hand,
we will be friends, I understand
we've taken everything you had
and driven you completely mad
My dear, I wonder if there could be
a burntout hovel in your heart for me
one of the enemy whose race
has made your land a hostile place.
Grey wolf
I saw you scuttle by
and hide your mush behind the carts
I caught your almond eye
Grey wolf
I saw you scuttle by
If you don't forgive me
I'll show you how I cry.
Grey wolf, I know your name
each letter stamped with shame
I wrote it in my father's book
the one my mocking mother took.
I turn it around in the bloodstained lamp,
twirling the pages as I stamp
grey wolf won't you waltz with me
so my cruel conscience lets me be
Grey wolf
I felt you flicker by
you watch me from above the cars
keep fixed your almond eye
Grey wolf
I felt you flicker by
why would you forgive me?
I'm always the bad guy.
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11. |
Bakt
04:52
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In this bag there's sewn the past
You know what's inside is bric a brac
Hung round a neck, underneath the clothes
you can't sell it for coins, only give it away
My bakt is hidden inside this bag
the affairs of men from the distant past
A lover's sea shell and a pebble with a hole
You can't sell the dark, only give it away
If I wandered for holiday pay
I would not part with what's inside
for a meal, for a tune on a violin
that only a toby child could play
unless you have faith, the bakt can't work
but if you have hope the oracle talks
My bakt is washed with a mother's tears
while the torturers rarely stand
A lump of cheese and a loaf of bread
the blast of a trumpet is as fast as a man
My bakt is hidden from the eyes of them
as would rip it apart from my chest
where a shoestring dangles it over my heart.
The joke after all is the talisman.
If I climbed like an able hop
It would not spare me from the shriek
that a toby child makes when he plays
he understands what the dead might say
above the roaring storm it talks.
If I have hope the oracle works.
What luck today? (None sir!)
What luck today? (Thrice none)
I never have any luck my son.
The good times are all done.
Don't moan or they'll be gone.
I keep my fingers curled around
my amulet of blood red fat.
In this bag is hidden my bakt.
If I wandered from field to field
I would not part with what's inside
for a meal, for a tune on a violin
that only a toby child might play
unless you have faith, the bakt can't work…
If I had a friend to share my stable
she would not spare me from the poke
that a toby child makes when he plays
he understands what the dead might say
above the roaring storm it talks.
If I have hope the oracle works.
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Bobby Bluff Hastings, UK
Martin Rowson - “Imagine Bertholdt Brecht, David Bowie about to book his ticket to Berlin and John Otway had kittens and puppies, and that those hellspawn then interbred incestuously - their progeny would probably sound like "Introducing Bobby Bluff", but with the passionate intensity toned down. I can think of no higher praise than that. Brilliant stuff.” ... more
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