„And who could feel sorry for a drunkard like this,
In a democracy of dunces with a parasites kiss?“
(David Sylvian)
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Her skin was darker than ashes | And she had something to say | Bout being naked to the elements | At the end of yet another day | And the rain on her back that continued to fall | From the bruise of her lips | Swollen, fragile, and small | And the bills that you paid with were worth nothing at all | A lost foreign currency | Multi-coloured, barely reputable | Like the grasses that blew in the warm summer breeze | Well she offered you this to do as you pleased …
And where is the poetry?
Didn’t she promise us poetry?
The redwoods, the deserts, the tropical ease | The swamps and the prairie dogs, the Joshua trees | The long straight highways from dirt road to tar | Hitching your wheels to truck, bus, or car … | And the lives that you hold in the palm of your hand | You toss them aside small and damn near unbreakable | You drank all the water and you pissed yourself dry | Then you fell to your knees and proceeded to cry … | And who could feel sorry for a drunkard like this | In a democracy of dunces with a parasites kiss?
And where are the stars?
Didn’t she promise us stars?
Nothing will ever be as it was | The price has been paid with a thousand loose shoes | Pictures are pasted on shop windows and walls | Like a poor mans Boltanski | Lost one and all … | Sell, sell | Bid your farewell | Come, come | Save yourself | Give yourself over | Pushing your consciousness | Deep into every atom and cell | Sell | Bid your farewell | Come, come | Save yourself | Give yourself over | Pushing your consciousness | Deep into every atom and cell | Sell | Bid your farewell …
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