Suicide isn't painless. It hurts like Hell. It's set aside for the famous. A little suicide sells. . Nothing lasts forever. But nothing ever did. It's big but it's not clever.
When you've been watching the world die all day. And channel hopping won't make it go away. Put on your shoes come and share the blues with me. . This skinny swollen kiddie covered in flies.
This is not a love song and it serves no use. But if you want to sing along with some verbal abuse. It might make you feel better and it's good for the soul.
Ground floor Shoppers' Paradise. Haberdashery, needles, spoons and knives. Knuckle dusters, glass jaws and wooden hearts. . Spend your money girls, on sprays and lipsticks.
Now, Sheriff Fatman started out. In business, a granny farmer. He was infamous for fifteen minutes. And he appeared on Panorama. . But then he somehow got himself on board.
I worship the ground that you walk on. Give praise to the place where you sit. Your face and the space that you talk from. Your teeth and those unlucky lips.
The Christmas cards and greetings are arriving. Across the shifty sands to the war. By the time I get to read them, she'll be rising. To a fifty, fifty chance and nothing more.