Straight In At 101
Quelle: Spotify
I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock
Feels like the build up takes forever but you never get me off
You pull your dress over your face
And I stare down towards my chest
Chastise both our greasy hair
Wonder whose gut is the softest
Stand with my ear to the door
Listening to the landing floorboards
Working out when we'll be safe
To dash the mattress to yr bathroom
Where I ball my fingers into fists
Until my knuckles glow bright white
Press the heels into eye-sockets
'Til I see the flashing lights
Stop me when my stories change
When they have started to repeat
'Cause last time I was a mess of sleep, of icy feet
So baby
All apologies
It was going to happen inevitably, oh
I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock
Feels like the build up takes forever but you never touch my cock
And what exactly do you mean now
By "what can you even eat?"
And how does that affect how I'll get off this evening?
I flew down south to Mexico
Had a minor realization
I understood why kids draw the sun with its rays emanating
And the beams broke the clouds,
The sky were like a concertina
I'd sat on in my pocket for weeks
Folded up from a picture
I've been playing straight chicken with gay girls
(It's never enough)
She keeps on pulling the peace sign
(And it seems like a taunt)
She licked a glaze on her lips
They shone like Battleship Grey
She never liked the wisdom I gave:
Some people give themselves to religion
Some people give themselves to a cause
Some people give themselves to a lover
I have to give myself to goals
So baby
All apologies
It was going to happen, inevitably
And if it helps
I mean, even slightly at all
It's best you dust yourself down
And get straight back on the horse
I condescend a smile
And wink directly at the camera
And leave you led in both our scents
As I tiptoe out the back door
I skid down icy streets
And view my face in the reflection
Of a High Street lingerie store
Though it wasn't my intention
I phoned my friends and family
To gather round the television
The talking heads count down the most heart-wrenching break-ups of all time
Imagine the great sense of waste
The indignity, the embarrassment
When not a single one of that whole century
Was mine
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