Lyrics

Where are you now my problematic fave? Oozing or just snoozing, snoozing in your grave In the age of information you escaped the great palaver Another gargoyle strangled by your slave Oozing and a-snoozing in your grave So great to hear that you became world famous in the end No-one got the memo though, my bulbous-headed friend Intuitively late for your blind date with Madame Fortune These orchestras are dead That rush for inequality, how was it ever clean? The bowing and the scraping was so monstrously obscene The lurch-creep of the puritan, the stink of burning bras These orchestras are dead, these orchestras are dead But long live the unborn! The baby yet-to-come! Long live the pinky paupers and the awful gits of dawn Delightful gifts are coming that we've yet to understand These orchestras are dead, these orchestras are dead A world-defeating dildo to the end Just in time for such a fine catastrophe my friend Seething with frustration at your third inoculation And a green electric scooter's all they send A green electric scooter's all they send And no-one ever pesters you for interviews today No muscle-bulging knuckleheads to hold the crowds at bay Just autistic incel bedroom boys who clutch their heads and say: "These fingered air apostrophes mean everything today" Each courting his catastrophe in his AirBnb But the rush for inequality was never ever clean The bowing and the scraping that left us sick and green The creep of the obsequiots, the stink of burning bras This orchestra is dead, this orchestra is dead But long live the unborn! Long live the yet-to-come! Long live the pinky paupers and the awful gits of dawn Delightful things come raining down we've yet to understand Now the awful star is dead and we are free to be the fans Of every fucking nothing thing at all These orchestras are dead