Monday 28 February 2011

Water Works

More Night of the Crabs gubbins. This is from the start of the musical and features the following ripe introduction:

Julie: Look, there's Shell Island.They say the bathing is super there.
Ian: The bathing is better than here? It's the same water isn't it?
Julie: Ian! You know what I mean!
Ian: Seriously! Is the water wetter? Is it heated? Soothing bubbles?
Julie: It's less exposed...more private.
Ian: Oh...I see. Yes, well, okay then. You're right...there may be "busy bodies" about here. Busy spying on our naked bodies. With field-glasses.
Julie: Race you!
Ian: Oh ho! This could be sexy. Very sexy. That's why I love the seaside. It never fails..."

And the anaemic funk of "Water Works" begins...




Water Works

The smack of sea-salt in the air,
While the sun is gently beating us,
Off come slacks like inhibitions,
Goodbye London, hello lust,
That magic place where dirt meets water,
Middle England locks up its daughters,

If you're having a dry season,
Water works, water works,
And if the sea's not freezing,
Water works, water works,
The old lady and the sea,
Water works, water works,
Erotic possibilities,
Water works, water works


Driving down in my old two-seater,
My girl beside me, shot-gun style,
Hope she's got an itchy trigger finger,
Cause I've not had it in a while,
Her bikini and her small firm breasts,
Sun and sea will do the rest,

If you're having a dry season,
Water works, water works,
And if the sea's not freezing,
Water works, water works,
The old lady and the sea,
Water works, water works,
Erotic possibilities,
Water works, water works

Crab Attack

More from the wonderful and frightening world of Night of the Crabs by The Woods. Another song from the powerful grinding mandibles of King Crab himself. This is his war anthem: he's taking on the Welsh military in no uncertain terms here.

I should point out that the actual songs are available to listen to on The Woods Myspace page. So if you've been wondering what this exotic drivel actually sounds like you can hear practically the entirety of the musical in one foul swoop: http://www.myspace.com/nightofthecrabs

As you were.



Crab Attack,

There's a nasty nip in the air,
A sense of something truly rare,
That ozone heavy ocean breeze,
Pregnant with some fresh unease,
A challenge to the natural order,
A deep-sea army on your border,
Clicking claws and walking side-ways,
And I'd advise you to do like-wise,
Step away the fight's unfair,
There's a nasty nip in the air,

There's a nasty nip in the air,
And there's an army base over there,
Let's destroy it, prove we're best,
There'll be no more convincing test,
We're angry, ugly, bullet-proof,
Lend me your shell-like, here's the truth,
Your weapons aren't fit for purpose,
Against the denseness of my epidermis,
Step away the fight's unfair,
There's a nasty nip in the air,

There's a nasty nip in the air,
And just admit that you're scared,
You've never met someone like me,
The biggest crab in history,
Though honestly there have been,
Giant crabs in pre-Cambrian seas,
But fossil-findings are all at sea,
And it's you that is history,
Step away the fights unfair,
There's a nasty nip in the air,

Crab attack, crab attack, watch my claw for the crab attack,

Go home humans,
You're just useless,
We will suck you,
Till you're juiceless,
We are hardened,
Here and ruthless,
You are squidgy,
Pink and toothless,

A King Considers...

This is my favourite of all of the songs in The Night of the Crabs
. It's King Crab's dark night of the soul, his moment of self-doubt on the eve of war. Unlike Guy N. Smith's original King Crab, ours is a diabolical, scheming genius, with a rich warm baritone not unlike my own (rather a lot of sibilance as befits an arthropod).

Dougs music is BRILLIANT: harpsichord, new-wave guitars and that superb slap-bass figure on the chorus. And, though I say it myself, the internal rhymes and misicality of the words puts this into a class of its own. This one's very good, I think.

See how you get on.

http://www.myspace.com/nightofthecrabs





A King Considers

Sitting here alone in my castle,
I parcel off all sense of doubt,
For life isn't just a rehersal,
And fortunes reversal must be stamped out,
Ruminating on the eternal,
I might start a journal, might start a blog,
Justifying my actions,
To my own satisfaction might be a slog,

But through it all that urgent whisper,
Still; quiet in my head, telling me that I'm bad,
A current ripples through the water,
A steady eddy of unease,
Bringing me to my knees,

Doubt's the King's disease,

It's lonely when you're clever,
I never get to have too much fun,
No one ever gets my jokes or laughs at all my puns,
Is that how I seek a connection?
Seend hawks when I could send doves,
In a game of tyrant top-trumps;
Fear Beats Love

But through it all that urgent whisper,
Still; quiet in my head, telling me that I'm bad,
A current ripples through the water,
A steady eddy of unease,
Bringing me to my knees,

Doubt's the King's disease,

Kill'em all, kill 'em all, kill 'em all sideways,

What can I do but fulminate,
Alone with all my thoughts,
How will history remember me? A Napoleon of sorts,
Again the voices start to sing out,
What right have you to kill,
The power of my own right arm,
The power of my will, renders the voices still.




Two Into One Will Go

The Wedding song from Night of The Crabs. I don't want to give too much of the plot away but the story does contain a wedding. It's toward the end. Dont read too much into that though. Theres all manner of plot twists. And giant crabs.



Two Into One Will Go

Do you take this man,
To have and hold and love and cherish,
Will you take his hand,
And keep on holding till you perish,
Do you take this girl,
In sickness, health or crab invasion,
Sweep her off the shelf,
And treat her nicely on occasion,
Weathring the storm,
In the oil-skins of affection,
Use constancy and tact,
And give up using contraception,
Travel broadens bellies,
So have a happy honeymoon,
Our presentation feature,
Is now listed "Coming Soon",

Proceed with caution down the aisle,
If you are an agorophile,

For two into one will go,
It's called marriage, don't you know,
There'll be fun-times,fooling around,
But now you share one bank-account,
For two into one will go,
You're a unit, you nit, you know,
No more living separate lives,
Now you're husbands, now you're wives,
Two into one WILL go,

I once had a dream,
And you and me, yes we, were in it,
We were lost in space,
The endless cosmos, infinite,
I was bobbing up there,
Rudderless, just like a hippy,
Till you took my arm,
And sloughed off all this entropy,
Taking baby steps,
On the outset of adventure,
Hope you're still with me,
At the onset of dementia,
I hope I won't be over cautious,
Hope I haven't made you nervous,

If infidelity is your thing,
Dont go swapping wedding rings,

For two into one will go,
It's called marriage, don't you know,
There'll be fun-times,fooling around,
But now you share one bank-account,
For two into one will go,
You're a unit, you nit, you know,
No more living separate lives,
Now you're husbands, now you're wives,
Two into one WILL go,



I Know In My Heart He's Dead

Another Woods song, once again from the fabulous, never before seen, musical review and chicken dinner, "Night of the Crabs: a Musical in Three Pincer Movements". This is a song for Pat, the female lead, waiting on the return of the hero Cliff Davenport to return from a crab-culling expedition. I sing this as it was very difficult to convince any women of our aquaintance to join in the spirit of the thing. Women aren't as silly as men, worse luck.

Here's the intro to Night of the Crabs.

"An inhuman mind was formulating plans drawn against us, plans to rule the world; puddle by puddle, pool by pool. An amphibious assault on God's clean earth was under construction. What's that clicking? That lateral scuttle into the shadows? The stench of salt and vinegar? Could it be ...THE NIGHT OF THE CRABS?"

I Know In My Heart He's Dead

While the sun dawns on a new day,
Still this shadow follows me,
Like the French Lieutenant's woman,
I'm still standing staring out to sea,
One single night of passion,
Match-light snatched from the abyss,
Incandescent in the moment,
A pin-prick in the emptiness,

A single nagging thought enter my head,
And I know in my heart he's dead,
Those simple words being left unsaid,
For I know in my heart he's dead,

He was just a man,
Only corduroy and bone,
But he had a nemesis,
To face on his own,
When others went running,
He stood his ground,
He had guile and cunning,
But now he's drowned,

chorus

Our very first date,
A pub called "Davey Jones' Locker",
Seems grimly ironic,
Now he's come a cropper,
Through his submarine death,
He'll be sadly missed,
But it's what he would have wanted,
As a marine-biologist,

Coda

He drifted off to sea,
Leaving no family,
I'd have married him willingly,
If he had just asked it of me,
Late at night standing on the groin,
Soaking wet and so alone,
It's true to say you cant go home,
With a heart as cold as stone,

I'd Rather be Drinking Than Thinking

This is the breakaway pop hit from the Night of the Crabs musical. It's sung by the drunken and ineffectual Colonel Goode, who pitches up in Barmouth in the aftermath of a wave of vicious and baffling crab attacks and does sod all. It comes with the this snatch of the libretto:

Goode: "Who the hell are you?" Cliff: "I'm Cliff Davenport, marine biologist and discoverer of the giant crabs. Who might you be? Colonel, is it?"Goode: Colonel Goode, if it's any business of yours. Now I understand you have a little crustacean problem? Why don't you run along and let my boys deal with it, like a good little civilian." Cliff:"With respect Colonel Goode you don't know what you're dealing with - these are no ordinary crabs." Goode:"Yes. I understand they're bigger. So maybe I'll invite you to the barbeque. There should be plenty to go round. Now why don't you run along?" Cliff:"Colonel, I must protest! I'm an expert in this field...I tell you these crabs are different..." Goode:"And I tell you these aren't the first crabs I've routed, as many an Algerian prostitute can well attest. Then again I was VERY drunk...story of my life I'm afraid..."

You get the idea. Douglas does an extraordinary job with the music here with the barrel-house piano and the marching feet. He's brilliant at putting sounds together...he should get paid for it. Not by me though.


I'd Rather Be Drinking Than Thinking



When I was a young shaver,
A scraper, a fella-me-lad,
I was a boffin, a brainbox,
Just like dear old dad,
Professor Goode's oldest boy,
Nose buried in a book,
But I had an epiphany,
With the first glass of beer I took,

I'd rather be drinking than thinking,
That's what they taught me at school,
I'd rather be drinking than thinking,
Dypsomania is the rule,
Though if you asked me to spell,
I'd call you a damnable fool,
I'd ather be drinking than thinking,
Cause being drunk is cool,

When I joined the army,
In the private's public bar,
An old timer, "Taffy" Tinsley,
Bought me my very first jar,
I gave a sniff suspiciously,
It was gassy as a broken oven,
I held my nose, I took a swig,
And polished off a dozen,

Chorus

That set me of on an Odyssey,
Though I don't have much Greek,
I kid you not, I had a tot,
Seven nights a week,
It's tough on the old bladder,
So I got the doctor in,
He said to me "Now Colonel,
This drinking is a sin,"
I thought "That's quite judgemental,
You hypocratic oaf,"
He looked at me quite sadly and said,
"Colonel, use your loaf,
Your bladder's fucked from drinking muck,
Your kidneys are a quiver,
And judging by your golden tan,
You've buggered up your liver!"
The words went in like tent pegs,
The prognosis looked quite grim,
I eyed the doctor warily, I thought,
"I won't go drinking with him,"

chorus

For boozing is my first love,
And it will be my last,
The bending of your elbow,
The falling on your arse,
Put Pernod in your cider,
It adds a touch of class,
Now which way to the pub son,
I'm on a 12 hour pass,
And mine's a balloon of brandy,
Seeing as how you've asked,

Sunday 27 February 2011

Belfast and Loose

Just left Kelly at Heathrow, endlessly zig-zagging through customs, looking, in her triangular blue coat and pink hat, like a child's drawing. And about the most perfect thing in the world. I held her all the way down on the train, which went the wrong way, rather difficult for an underground train you'd think and you might be right, but our genius train-driver managed it, detouring via terminal four. But we had plenty of time and the drivers mistake was a chance to claw back some romance from the jaws of misery.

It all went very well; we were unharried and methodical, both areas where I traditionally excel (though Kelly will tell you that I'm more inclined to exhale, heavily and often, like a put upon teenager).It was almost fun except that she's gone and gone for a week. She has requested that I sort out my teeth.

Four years ago when we met it was not my snake hipped dance moves that entranced her (now sadly replacement hip moves) nor the lustrous silver crown adorning my head ( which now resembles the ghost of a hayrick ) but my dazzling smile. My teeth. The teeth that are now fenced off ny the authorities to stop druids attempting to celebrate the solstice at them. My teeth. The teeth that resemble a graveyard where actual teeth are buried. My teeth: the unlucky horse-shoe, the slashed seats in the stalls; the brown cornflakes in the packet. Not so good my teeth but, four years ago...dazzling. What happened? Two things: red wine and bruxism. Which sounds like a Club of Queer Trades song. I suffer from a medical condition called bruxism (street name: teeth-grinding). It sounds harmless enough but the constant erosion of my teeth from nocturnal gurning has left my molars looking a coastal granite shelf. At night I pop in a gum-shield like a dozy boxer. I should have a spitoon by the bed. The red wine is fairly self explanatory. Added to the fifty cups of tea I drink a day and you have a fairly sound basis for my butterscoth smile. I may as well have a plaster stretched over my mouth. I mean they're not Martin Amis bad but put me in a smock and you've got yourself a relief simpleton!

Kelly is very keen on me to get them sorted. My body has taken a bit of a pounding over the last four years and it's becoming increasingly difficult to lick me back into shape - there are no takers on that one. I'm aging in dog years, time-lapse dog years and something needs to be done. She'd like me pretty again. I'll give it a go.

* * * * * * * * * * *

On the way back from Heathrow on the train. An elderly woman gets on at South Kensington. She is dressed from head to foot in fur (she even appears to be wearing fur trousers). She looks like a cross between Joel Grey in Cabaret and Edith Head. An attractive Asian girl opposite me leaps up to offer her a seat (note that I don't). The old woman isn't having it. She insists but the old woman is adamant: she's going to stand. Neither one of them seems willing to back down. They stand either side of the empty seat in a standoff until the Asian girl gets off at Green Park and the old woman immediately sits down in the seat opposite. She smiles at me.

Sunday 20 February 2011

The Devils of London & Goodbye Stroud Green Road

More Club of Queer Trades songs about London. I had no idea then, of course, that I would be leaving London, and under what circumstances; so these seem like parting shots to me now.

The Devils of London is, of course, a pun on The Devils of Loudon by Aldous Huxley and the the first line puns on the name of the protagonist of that novel Urbain Grandier. So far so pointless. Grandier was played by Oliver Reed in Ken Russell's film version (called simply "The Devils")and that is why the middle eight is entirely constructed of the titles of Oliver Reed films including the Jukebox Jury appearance that Russell saw and which persuaded him to cast him as Debussey.

I'd forgotten I'd done this until I came to type this up and I suppose the real question is: why? No idea.

Stroud Green Road is the high street bisecting Finsbury Park and leads directly onto Crouch Hill where delicious and popular celebrities live (Simon Pegg! David Tennant (though not any more!) Arabella "Does my bum look big in this?" Weir! And Bernard Butler.) The song is my fantasy, and by criminy it IS a fantasy, of moving into that salubrious yummy mummified enclave and breathing the same rarified air as Caitlin Moran and Peter Paphides! Imagine!


The Devils of London

All this urban grandeur,
Black stone books, finger-printed with smut,
If these too, too solid walls could talk,
What would they say to us,
Here's a burly boulevadier,
A neat scar torn across his cheek,
Has a ring on every finger,
A conscience that plays hide and seek,

The devil's in the details,
In the dovetails overhead,
A trumpet sounds and the walls come down,
This is the city of the dead,

A jug of orange with a vodka chaser,
And a pint closing the gap,
Ten to one that he can't make it,
To the bathroom without mishap,
I've seen them all come through here,
My gift of vision doubly strong,
Like Silenus, this drunken prophet,
Admits his losses and is never wrong,

The devil's in the details,
In the dovetails overhead,
A trumpet sounds and the walls come down,
This is the city of the dead,

A right royal flash in the pan,
In this shuttered room with the shattered damned,
No love for Johnny and an angry silence,
A hunting party that ends in violence,
Spasms, venom and days of fury,
Hello London, hello juke box jury


Goodbye Stroud Green Road

I needed a refuge when the floodgates opened,
After the deluge,
You can't trust your friends,
When the port-cullis of fame descends,
I woke up one morning to find myself famous,
And rich as Croesus,
And by the light of a new day dawning,
I ripped my address book into pieces,

So goodbye Stroud Green Road,
It was fun but now I've had my fill,
With all the success I've won,
Now i'm moving up the hill,

My face is so banal, it's everywhere,
On posters and towels,
I'm in the papers everyday,
My clippings library is off the scale,

Please don't get me wrong,
I've lived hand to mouth for so very long,
I've followed so many pursuits,
I'm not entirely sure which one bore fruit,
I'm on Dragon's Den,
I'm sneering at desperate deluded men,
And I guess it's sort of funny,
As i've no idea how I've got so much money,

I was an actress, held a criminal practice,
Before being called to the bar,
I was an actor, temporary contractor,
Model and valet driver, blood and sperm provider,
I was a battery hen, sold my body now and then,




Little Nemo

Winsor McCay's "Little Nemo in Slumberland", a 1905 American Newspaper comic strip, is the inspiriration here (and perhaps to a greater extent Brian Bolland's "Little Nympho in Slumberland", as it's the same thing but with tits in it). The chorus, which appears to be nonsense, is actually a fairly literal transliteration of events in the comic strip: Nemo has a Lampwick-like pal named Flip who is constantly trying to wake Nemo up, to the extent that he wears a top hat with "Wake-up!" written on it.

There's a reference to "The Wizard of Oz" in there too. For some reason.

This is a Red Atlas song and the blistering opening salvo to the live set. It always sounded great.


Little Nemo

The tightly coiled bed-sheets,
I'm lost in my fever dream,
Counting leaping black sheep,
My thoughts as dirty as my sheets are clean,

Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Get out of bed,

I'm hip to the hipnogogic,
Shapes and colours dance like dazzled rain,
I'm turned on with no off switch,
Will I ever feel this switched on again,

Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Get out of bed,

Here comes the false memory,
Miss you, miss you, but I miss you most,
If it's water biscuits in heaven,
I'll take my chances with hot buttered toast,

Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
Flip comes in his "wake-up" hat,
GET OUT OF BED!

Thursday 17 February 2011

Drink The Young Wine

Here's a Red Atlas song. It's difficult to date Atlas songs, they just sort of build bit by bit like silt deposits in an Ox-Bow lake. Or something else that I half remember from Geography lessons. This one is our "slowie" and has actually been played, never well, live. Our live set is usually fairly high-octane, as well as being discordant and too loud and lumpily all over the shop. It has all the hallmarks of a Red Atlas song: references to drinking, St. John of the Cross, Shakespeare and bad puns.

There is a notional set of references to the First World War but really it's about me. That's right I'm comparing the suffering of millions to my own depression. I'm not totally insensitive: I could have named it Spanish Flu.

The title is ripped off from the Surrealists. It's an homage. It's an homage.

Drink The Young Wine,


Though I still question it,
I still sometimes believe,
In the dark night of the soul,
Licking shadows can decieve,
Here's the burden of the proof,
Time to take the strain,
One hundred per cent proof,
The last drop I drain,

Drink the young wine,
Drink the long draft down,
Drink the young wine,
In the Malmsy butt you drown,

A telegram from over-seas,
Oh brother please just...stop,
We are lions lead by donkeys,
Or is that over the top,
Here's the burden of the proof,
Time to take the strain,
One hundred per cent proof,
The last drop I drain,

By the way,
Bide away,
In the sunlight of those endless hours, wasting

Soledad Miranda

This is a Petomane about, fairly obviously, Soledad Miranda, early muse of Jess Franco and star of such films as "Vampyros Lesbos" and "The Devil came from Akasava" (both excellent). She died in a car crash tragically early and was hypnotically beautiful. Less obviously this song is about my wife: the most astonishing woman I have ever met in pretty much every way.

Soledad Miranda

Soledad is back,
Eyes of black,
All "Death and the Maiden",
But which is she?
A witch is she, for sure,
Soledad attracts,
Snipe attacks,
As she walks through the restaurant,
They carp and spit,
She doesn't hear at all,
She's all alone,

Anybody else,
Would have felt,
Those poison darts falling,
But Miss Miranda,
Understands the world,
Soledad's detached,
What's the catch?
She's a dead woman walking,
This mortal coil,
Can't hope to spoil her day,
She's not here to stay,

Tuesday 15 February 2011

Boaster's Bar

This is Boaster's Bar another Club of Queer Trades song and written around the same time as The Hip Replacement Priest and like that song it comes out of that period where I was trying to write songs about London pub-life and barflies and dole uncles and that whole shabby no longer genteel milieu. I had been reading Dickens' "Sketches by Boz" at the time so there you have it - my literary antecedent is Charles Dickens. Obviously.

This was actually written in the King's Head in Crouch End a pub known for its thriving comedy scene and its comically truculent bar staff. In fact London bar staff has finally managed to kill off my enthusiasm for pubs. Better than hypnotherapy. Well done, rude pricks - you may have saved my life. Though I didn't ask you to!



Boasters’ Bar

Listen to me and I'll tell you about them all in here
No stone left unturned for the price of a pint of beer
The apogee of idiocy, you'll see more tits than Rigby and Peller
Like a petri-dish, it's a slice of life but with comedy in the cellar
I don’t know if you've realised this is a fashionable part of town
So keep your hands in your pockets and your valuables nailed down
There's an actor from the telly on his way back from the gym
Showily drinking Guinness until you notice him
He'll catch your eye, tut loudly, whisper something to the staff
And they'll all turn round to stare at you with a sycophantic laugh
I'm not sure who those hipsters are, could they be in a band?
They've an air of sneering confidence and they're dressed like Russell Brand
I'm not jealous of the fellas, but I hope they haven’t peaked
They've shifted seven units on i-tunes this week
This part of town is famous for theatrical residents
And here they are, at the bar, shy and hesitant
Three actresses in harem pants, dramatically ill-starred
Trying to pay for a small house-white with a fucking credit card
They bray, they coo, they whinny, they canter and they snort
They'd exit stage left pretty fast if they could read my thoughts

I don’t know who you think you are but I'm the star of the Boaster's Bar

There's a couple of T.V. folk; he's florid, she's not bright
But he keeps buying all the drinks and she's doing alright
Her days of being a runner are heading for the tape
If she calls it a career move you couldn’t call it rape
In the corner by the window, fairy-lighted in the rain
Two sallow men are sitting drawing up sketches of pain
They've an infant in the ice-box, a dog straining in the yard
They've killed a dozen men in here and never yet been barred

I don’t know who you think you are but I'm the star of the Boaster's Bar

Over in the booth and I promise it's the truth is the worst man you could ever hope to meet
He's a legend around here and before you get the fear be thankful you didn’t meet him in the street
His smile is like a shark’s and I'll tell you before you ask that not a single tooth of his is filled
He used to be a soldier and every sparkling molar is from the mouth of somebody he's killed
His eyes are black as night and his skin is deathly white and his body's dimpled with a thousand scars
He shaves with broken glass, living relatives are sparse and he drinks the fucking petrol out of cars

I don’t know who you think you are but I'm the star of the Boaster's Bar

Thursday 10 February 2011

Whiskey Priest

This is a new one. The usual.

Whiskey Priest,

There's a virgin active by the hospice shop,
I see it all from here,
The bottle windows of this passenger steamer,
My eyes are ringed with beer,
Won't you join me for a drop,
A good six foot and then the slack,
A Pierrepoint presentation,
The Stella's got its groove back,

Not stopping, never staying;
The Spectator at the feast,
In the shadows I'm the chaser:
Please cal me the Whiskey Priest,

You say I'm weak, I know what's weaker,
The thread that holds it all in place,
Life hauled off like a hobbled streaker,
A coper cupping your disgrace,
I've never hidden behind this collar,
I hover over like a red balloon,
I bob and slobber in the air-con,
A waxy Wayne; a pink gin moon,

Not stopping, never staying;
The Spectator at the feast,
In the shadows I'm the chaser:
Please cal me the Whiskey Priest,

I'd rather have a bottle in front of me,
Than an embattled philosophy,
Time waits for no man in Heligoland,
Got paid in unkind and
I got laid in the same,
Next time I tell you it's all up front,
That's all I want,

Wednesday 9 February 2011

What I did on my holidays

This is another Club of Queer Trades tune. It should be fairly obvious who it's about. Or you're not paying attention.


What I did on my holidays


I really used to stand for something
The desperate man with his tail trapped in the door
Now I’d sooner sit down with a cup of tea
I’m not fussed about standing anymore
I was so thin, skin translucent under arc-lights
Now I look like a mafia Don, on a transatlantic flight

I’ll write a song about Mexico
I’ll write a song about Rome
I’ll write a song about anywhere
As I no longer have a home
I’ve lost my sense of humour
And I’ve lost my sense of place
Now I just write about
What I did on my holidays

I was the King, I truly was the King
The face that lunched a thousand shits
My Karaoke road-show’s all go
I sing along to all my hits
I ran the show, each and every practise bon-mot
Reached the dizzy heights right? So how’d I ever get solo?

I’ll write a song about Mexico
I’ll write a song about Rome
I’ll write a song about anywhere
As I no longer have a home
I’ve lost my sense of humour
And I’ve lost my sense of place
Now I just write about
What I did on my holidays

How to describe the indie-scribe-able?
Devious, Truculent; Unreliable