Lyrics

Rust Crawls down the side of my water tank life Cuts like a knife Sluts like my wife And you'd like her too People usually do Pus Seeps from the seams of our festering souls Mostly just dripping Ghostly and gripping Slipping Slipping And if only I knew And if only I had the questions And the moment to ask If only I had the shoes in which to dance To take a chance to free myself Enough to paint a portrait Of my paternal grandma Nude in public Rude and pubic Rubix, cubic Sex Resides in the core of my labyrinth mind Masturbating minotaur Saucy and sinister Half man, half bullock Large swollen bollocks Mostly just swinging Itchy and stinging Stinging And there will be times, there will be times When sunset falls like a wingless bird Ne'er to sing again Ne'er to wing again There was an old man called Michael Finnegan He grew whiskers Like magical Mr Mestopholes In the room the women come and go Talking of contract law and weight-loss shows And if only they knew! If only they could see the light If only they could watch me try to write The songs I long to write And right the wrongs I thought I might I mixed my colours with my whites And now I fight the tide I fight In mighty tight trousers and really big shoes And nothing to lose But my stiffy I grow old, I grow scared I shall wear my pre-worn trousers flared And while the shadow may lie between ideas and facts We can lyrically wax some more interesting gaps Like the soft bit that sits 'twixt our arseholes and sacks We're living in the Perineum Millennium The in-between years Not front bum or back bum, not fiction or factum Not the ideas or the reality Nor the shadow nor the hollow Not a bosom for a pillow Not Dante's big whinge about cruising round Hades The Perineum is tasty as taties and gravy It's quite big on the boys but just small on the ladies And can break altogether when the ladies have babies But still we insist on being brisk with the topic In the fear the affair will turn colonoscopic And we all know what Sigmund would say about that As you lie on your back, etherised on a table Like the fabled evening spread out against the sky Let us go then, you and I… Fuck that, Freud you perverted Viennese prat Just cos you're a crack pot Just cos you whacked off lots As a little tacker Your little pre-genius eyeball Pressed to the keyhole When your mum's in the loo And you, aged just two Sneaking a good ol' peep At certain half-deserted streets At the muttering retreats Of your mum's "meat Venetians" As she's bent over the bath Your future stared back like a glittering path Gilded with that golden guilt Upon which you built Your Oedipal empire But always you searched for the soft bit unseen For text beneath the pages And the years between the anal and genital phases The pereniul quest, life's only true task The only real test us humans must pass Begins at the testes and ends at the arse This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends: Not with a full stop But a colon