My Sunday

He knew the evil of the phone
The bells stopped on Sunday when he rose

The Sunday morning loud lawn mower
The upstairs Jewish girl damn hoovering every 30 minutes

I'm dressed like a road beacon
On my way to Valhalla breakfast
And everything hurts
Too much brandy for breakfast

I take you to the park up the road
But here is the rain
Rain makes policemen no threat
Turns cars into little specks
Muffles the shouts of your nеighbour
And we will have sex hеre

I’m becoming everything I used to hate
But I can't go back there
No back there
I can't go back there
Not back to the park
The brown monk ghost’ll catch us
And make us lust-rockers
Make us wear huckleberry masks

I'm totally wired and I'm always worried

Two white birds cross the sky
Look like krakens

I think I'll ring Swine-Tax and go back to our flat

Lights flash over me
24 hour bulb, I'm just home for tea

6pm, Bonjela complexion
Take it off!
Stress at four is for bed
Silence 6pm
Bonjela completion

My family's a weird lot
My stepsister's got a horrible growth
Listens to all this muzak shit
Reads Smash Hits while she's eating her tea
To me it sounds like bad CB

And I watched ’Murder, She Wrote’ at least 5 times
The cast deserved to die

There's been no war for 40 years
And getting drunk fills me with guilt
So after 8, I prowl the hills
11 o’clock, I'm tired to fuck