I do wrong, strictly speaking, just for myself
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Because it makes me feel like a real man
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To hold germane over my business
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And I refuse to be abused by the mill of blissful decay
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Besides, I'm used to all of my scruples deserting me
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Like they're wont to dare
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The lady from the plaque hunched over on the stool
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Saying I've been rolled so many times
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It's just feeding the pigeons
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Now her grandson swings a little rabbit by the leg
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While his mother's playing two little wooden flute
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Playing some fugitive air to escape the streets' waggeries
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Pathetic!
|
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Has anybody here seen my orphan blonde?
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Has anyone seen where he's gone?
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What he thinks I owe him is his former life but
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How can I unmake someone else's mistakes?
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I guess I was his antihero, the bitter word on his lips
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I hope I never feel a terror like when you discovered your autonomy had flipped
|
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I feel like I possess only the bright aspect of his ability but none of the good ones
|
I'm a walking mausoleum, the scent of rotting flesh
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Mother always loved you best, liked your teeth upon her breast
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The smithy remove the oils from the eyes of street cats
|
Through some shitty witchcraft, and rubs their brows and genitalia
|
I had no idea how deeply I wounded you
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But I don't need no forgiveness and no level of contrition will ever do
|
|
La la la
|
La la la la la la
|
La la la la la la
|
La la la la la la la
|
|
La la la
|
La la la la la la
|
La la la la la la
|
La la la la la la la
|
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Ooh-ah-ah
|
Ooh-ah-ah
|
Ooh-ah-ah
|
Ooh-ah-ah
|
|
-----------------
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Fugitive Air
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| Of Montreal |
