Nowadays is it more like this?
This bed is on fire
With passionate love
The neighbours complain about the noises above
But she only comes when she's on top
Something like that.
Nowadays is it more like this?
This bed is on fire
With passionate love
The neighbours complain about the noises above
But she only comes when she's on top
Agreed. I posted that in all seriousness. It's one of the greatest opening lines to a song ever. I lived in a squat in Whalley Range for a few months after finishing my degree in the very early 90s and got to see that attitude you mentioned first-hand too.
Everyone is trying to get to the bar.
The name of the bar, the bar is called Heaven.
The band in Heaven plays my favorite song.
They play it once again, they play it all night long.
Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens.
Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens.
There is a party, everyone is there.
Everyone will leave at exactly the same time.
Its hard to imagine that nothing at all
Could be so exciting, and so much fun.
Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens.
Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens.
When this kiss is over it will start again.
It will not be any different, it will be exactly the same.
It's hard to imagine that nothing at all
Could be so exciting, could be so much fun.
Heaven is a place where nothing every happens.
Heaven is a place where nothing every happens.
You'll see kidney machines replaced by rockets and guns . . .
"And when we're in your scholarly room, who will swallow whom?"
She appears composed, so she is, I suppose
Who can really tell?
She shows no emotion at all
Stares into space like a dead china doll
Been climbing trees I've skinned my knees
My hands are black the sun is going down
She scruffs my hair in the kitchen steam
She's listening to the dream I weaved today
Crosswords through the bathroom door
While someone sings the theme-tune to the news
And my sister buzzes through the room leaving perfume in the air
And that's what triggered this.
I come back here from time to time
I shelter here some days.
A high-back chair. He sits and stares
A thousand yards and whistles
Marching-band (Boom-ching)
Kneeling by and speaking up
He reaches out and I take a
Massive hand.
Disjointed tales
That flit between short trousers
And a full dress uniform
And he talks of people ten years
Gone like I've known them all my life
Like scattered black 'n' whites