we are the high street service trays
|
coming to take you away
|
pasadena 1968
|
with speed on your breakfast plate
|
aunt cancer calls them happy pills
|
they keep her calm and cool until he leaves
|
the moccasin skin obsession leather thigh
|
white tennis skirt so high
|
the eyes of mine are new and kind
|
but the hair's not grey, it's white
|
and grandfather's an ascot noose
|
can't tie the tassels on his shoes
|
leave me
|
these are the red-eyed politics
|
the cocktail revisionists
|
war room rules: no wives or kids
|
here men sing the boy in them
|
the hedge casts heroes late across our lawn
|
the valley hunt militiamen, all gone
|
thought we had the lock in '54
|
now the maid owns the house next door
|
and what's more
|
swims in the pool she used to clean
|
our new king looks like a queen
|
leave me
|
oh god stop tearing off the roof
|
of my experimental bathroom
|
it's the only thing that's halfway mine
|
and not for your prying and lying eyes
|
the empire's melting like ice cream
|
on the altar of the sun
|
this skin we've stretched for centuries
|
it's faded, it's fraying, it's meaningless to me
|
|
-----------------
|
Crown Of The Valley
|
| Jets To Brazil |
