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The Rose.
Its the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance.
When the night has been too lonely and the road has been too long.
Better With My Hands.
I recoil a little, I try not to panic,
Then I close my eyes and kiss you (Kiss you),
If it is sex, please put me to the test,
Then I close my eyes and kiss you (Kiss you),
Look At Me.
Look at me,
Fake honey, real plastic.
Look at me (I've heard this before),
Do you believe in life after love? (after love, after love, after love)
Look at me (We've done this before),
I Hate You.
Oh to be a doctor and practice acupuncture on your eyes,
You're only a pacifist cause you're too gutless to fight,
Some say and who are they,
They say and who are they,
The monster in her box,
Well of course you'd like the taste,
As they dragged her to the hearse,
And if only the good die young,
And lastly, lastly I was once taught a valuable lesson,
Jen & Helen
And I've been sick now,
Ba ba ba ba da da da,
And I've been awake now,
Ba ba ba ba da da da,
Ba ba ba ba da da da,
Jen sent a message to Helen,
Ba ba ba ba da da da,
Ba ba ba ba da da da,
Now Jen is damaged,
Windmills
Keys that jingle in your pocket,
Like a circle in a spiral,
Mercy.
In the word's that I have forgotten,
And the light of day is breaking into view,
Her arms are reaching for you,
Paul and Flacco sang this on Good News Week Night Lite in about June 1999.
Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your heart to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower, and you its only seed.
Its the dream afraid of waking that never takes the chance.
Its the one who won't be taken who can not seem to give.
And the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong.
Just remember in the winter, far beneath the bitter snow,
Lies the seed that with the suns love, in the spring, becomes the rose.
The Sandman, Flacco and Paul sung this on Good News Week Night Lite in about June 1999. Thanks to Sally!
Sitting on a towel with you in a paddock,
A hawk up above it seemed so romantic.
I let my hand brush against your arm,
The lust in my body gives me quite a charm.
This is the moment, I want to say 'I love you',
I feel that you feel the same.
Oh let's tell the truth, there's nothing in our way,
Except this hawk buzzing round about a mile away.
Then I close my eyes and kiss you,
You move a bit and I miss you.
Oh!
No sudden movements, nothing dramatic.
I confess, you know you hurt my pride,
And I'm a good at keeping things locked inside.
Maybe you've just got pins and needles in your toes,
Or you don't like the air coming from my nose.
Oh let's tell the truth, there's nothing in our way,
Except this hawk buzzing round about a mile away.
You move a bit and I miss you (Miss you).
Oh!
Then you say you'd rather have a man who is better with his,
Then you say you'd rather have a man who is better with his,
Then you say you'd rather have a man who is better with his,
Hands!
Cause I learnt from an older woman how to do my best.
Oh let's tell the truth, there's nothing in our way,
Except this hawk buzzing round about a mile away.
You move a bit and I miss you (Miss you).
Oh!
Then you say you'd rather have a man who is better with his,
Then you say you'd rather have a man who is better with his,
Then you say you'd rather have a man who is better with his,
Hands!
Hands!
Hands!
Hands!
Hands!
Hands!
Hands!
Hands!
Better with his hands.
Paul and Mark Trevorrow sung this on Good News Week Night Lite in July 1999.
Good looking, bad tasting.
Full bodied, butt wasted.
Loose living, tight fitting.
What you see ain't what you are getting.
Fast loving, slow moving.
No rhthym, but I'm grooving.
Old feeling, new beginning.
Superficial expectations.
You can take it all,
Because this face is free.
Maybe next time use your eyes and,
Look at me.
I'm a drama queen,
If that's your thing baby,
I can even do reality.
Stupid cupid, fantastic.
Queer thinking, straight talking.
What you see ain't what you are getting.
Big make-up, little break up.
She wants it, he's got it.
Cold blooded, hot gossip.
Superficial expectations.
You can take it all,
Because this face is free (and I'll hear it again).
Maybe next time use your eyes and,
Look at me (I've seen this before).
He's a drama queen,
If that's your thing baby (and I'll see it again),
He can even do reality.
I can feel something inside me say,
I really don't think you're strong enough, no!
Do you believe in life after love? (after love, after love, after love)
I can feel something inside me say,
I really don't think you're strong enough.
You can take it all,
Because this face is free (let's do it again).
Maybe next time use your eyes and,
Look at me (because it worked before).
He's a drama queen,
If that's your thing baby (it'll work again),
He can even… won't you look at me!
Look at me (Tell me what you see),
You can take it all,
Because this face is free.
Maybe next time use your eyes and,
Look at me.
I'm a drama queen,
If that's your thing baby,
Won't you look at me!
A poem by Paul that appears on the Native Tongue CD.
It's not just that you're ugly,
Though you rate high on the scale.
But unlike other basic primates,
You've devolved into the male.
Whose witless tactless body,
Now teeters here before me,
With an English actor's lisp.
A palette that's half cleft,
Holding your wipe your arse degree,
In third rate bigotry.
With a Masters in speaking through your famous anus,
You must love the taste of turds,
You're always swallowing your own words.
You're a feeble flatulent toerag,
Or a butcher with a cleaver making loin chops of your thighs.
Or best of all to run a restaurant and shaschlick your dick,
But you wouldn't even make an entrée,
Cause you're such a little prick.
Your face is like a jigsaw,
That's been put together wrong.
Mr Cohen should sit down and write a sympathetic song,
You're pigeon-toed, knock kneed, sparrow chested, feather brained.
In conversation for hours you keep people entertained,
But usually when you're not around to hear it.
Your life is just as dismal,
As a free church Sunday missal.
From the preface to the back,
It's filled with utter crap,
And I believe I have a right to speak my mind and to react.
People are terrified that you might reproduce,
You're the only reason I'd ever argue for abortion.
You've past the use by date,
And you'll probably never mate.
But I'd like to make just one small precaution,
Just to hedge my bets,
I'd like to whip you round the vets.
A little snip and tuck,
You'd never feel the urge to fuck.
Your nether parts would be as lame,
As that dead lump of phlegm you call your brain.
In a way you and Nancy Reagan are the same,
You're both fucking vegetables.
You've as much to offer humanity,
As a bubonic plague.
As much to offer art,
As a first year med school plague.
You're a postulant cancer that no cream can whisk away,
You're the apple of my eye that's turned rotten to the core.
Will I never escape the long arm of a bore?
You know you never argue,
Cause you know you're always right.
And what is more I do not believe in this life affirming crap.
Get a lemon up me if you want your back scratched,
I'm okay you're completely fucked.
You want to get off the track but the needles stuck, stuck,
Some say and who are they,
You were conceived in something less than the missionary position.
They claim you came by way of fusion or exploratory fission,
Dark seminal emissions,
Like the hole that's never whole.
Because parts of you are missing,
I'll let you draw your own conclusions,
For this agenda driven vision.
You are the unfortunate by-product of an unholy union.
You seem shocked by the revelation,
I think that you should sue them,
Whoever they may be.
I'm disgusted by the suggestion thus I dispute it,
But you, you, you do nothing to refute it.
They are trustworthy intellectuals,
Whose soul purpose is the pursuit of truth.
They claim a fiscal combination of wastage, bile and protoplasmic slop,
Left to brew overnight in a bucket with some drops of blood.
Thickened potent sludge,
From the genetic blueprint,
Of a crazed psychotic and moronic private junkie.
A lowlife a vile yet all too human bug,
And each cycle Mother Nature,
Tried to flush you out.
But you hung on to life like a loser holds a louse,
And you developed like a cancer.
Growing exponential in her womb,
A belly full of lice a stench in an airless room.
And all her inadequate precautions,
All her potions and her poisons,
Could not rid her of the grotesque foetal sac.
The monkey in her slacks,
And you fermented with foetal scrapings from the morgue.
The dismembered remains of those unclaimed,
The children of the lost the lonely the offspring of the bored.
This vile concoction bubbled and boiled,
While virgin bedsheets still unsoiled,
Lay gentle unsuspecting.
In that brief elusive gap,
Feeding on the vulval sac,
This crass thing unrelenting,
Within minutes took its form.
An hour later you were born,
It was a cosmic error of comic book proportions.
Of excremental waste,
You are what you eat and you can see it in your face.
The doctor threw you to the pitbulls,
They claimed you as their own,
So between the pitbulls and the maggots you'll always find a home.
And if they'd known what you'd become,
An abomination to the lord,
They would have garroted your baby neck,
With your own umbilical cord.
The horror the disgrace,
Transformed your mother's face.
So she decided there and then not to abide,
She bade a fond farewell,
Swallowed a thousand sleeping pills,
And after vomiting for an hour gracefully died.
They fumigated and they cursed,
For they recalled that even she,
Had requested not to be present at the hour of your birth.
The doctor passed on some time later,
Of shame it is believed,
And when the word was heard he delivered the turd,
Not even his good wife grieved.
They burned the surgery to the ground,
Destroyed the utensils that had been so instumental,
In bringing you into the open air.
And from that day forth you grew out of control,
A vicious seething mould,
That you survived while others died,
It's a fucking crying shame.
Well then you're gonna live forever,
So my weary friend,
The time has come to end,
What I began so lovingly so long ago.
I'll keep the last words simple,
And pray that you understand.
For there's many more here who want to bend your ear,
They've formed a queue,
It's dedicated just to you.
Permit me to finish by saying,
It's been a pleasure an unmitigated pleasure,
To be so honest and so frank,
And I'm sure I speak for everyone,
So there's not only me to thank.
If you do not know the answer do not ask the question.
I just hope you're happy now,
And it's settled in your heart.
Next time you ask if I like you,
You'll know the answer from the start.
Listen to the track again if you're confused,
And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid....
This is from Good News Week Night Lite July 1999. Thanks to Jessie, Nug and the MOSHers who helped out!
Jen sent a message to Helen,
Said that it's so pleasant to be in your room.
Ooooh!
But between the poetry and lies,
All I really felt was an overwhelming sense of gloom.
Ooooh!
She spoke of myths and legends,
How he's still ever present but this does not concern you.
Ooooh!
Our life is just what happened,
When there was nothing else to do.
For a couple of days.
I've been standing by the shrine to the girl that died down by the lake.
And I'm still wired,
But there is something worse.
It wasn't him it was me,
Who stole the last gram of speed from your open hearse.
Ba ba ba ba da da da da daa.
Ba ba da da,
Ba ba da da,
Ba da da da da da da daa.
Ba ba ba ba da da da,
Ba ba ba ba da da da da daa.
Ba ba da da,
Ba ba da da,
Ba da da da da da da daa.
For several years.
And I'm possessed with the gift where prophet pissed an ocean of tears.
And I stood quiet,
Through the sun and the rain.
And the warmth and the joy in the home of those who remained.
Ba ba ba ba da da da da daa.
Ba ba da da,
Ba ba da da,
Ba da da da da da da daa.
Ba ba ba ba da da da da daa.
Ba ba da da,
Ba ba da da,
Ba da da da da da da daa.
She waited at the station for an hour or more.
Ooooh!
But when no one arrived,
She drove across the bridge and hammered on my door.
Ooooh!
And standing by the window,
We lied that we would miss her on winter days.
Ooooh!
And wanting to forget this,
She folded up the letter and drove away.
Ba ba ba ba da da da da daa.
Ba ba da da,
Ba ba da da,
Ba da da da da da da daa.
Ba ba ba ba da da da da daa.
Ba ba da da,
Ba ba da da,
Ba da da da da da da daa.
But hey that's nothing new.
And Helen went and left me for a man who's suit is peacock blue.
Paul and Mark Trevorrow sung this on Good News Week Night Lite in July 1999.
Round like a circle in a spiral,
like a wheel within a wheel.
Never ending on beginning on an ever-spinning reel.
Like a snowball down a mountain or a carnival balloon.
Or a carousel that's turning running rings around the moon.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes on its face.
And the world is like an apple spinning silently in space.
Like the circles that you find,
In the windmills of your mind.
Words that jangle in your head.
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore,
They leave their footprints in the sand.
Was the sound of distant drumming,
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway,
Or the fragments of a song.
Half-remembered names and faces,
But to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over,
You were suddenly aware,
That the autumn leaves were turning,
To the colour of her hair.
Like a wheel within a wheel.
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever-spinning reel.
As the images unwind,
Like the circles that you find,
In the windmills of your mind.
Your mind,
Your mind!
Paul sang this on Good News Week Night Lite in July 1999. Thanks to Shelley for her help.
You cry now because it's over,
But for me it never really began.
You're just like some drug,
That never quite kicked in.
You're like a good time that we both never had.
And I say, hey get used to this,
This feeling of being abused.
Though you'll hesitate,
And contemplate,
You'll still end up getting screwed.
Light of day it's shining in on you,
And you, and you're so messed up,
And tired of everything they do.
And anyway, no one ever stays,
Anyway.
You are the plans that I have misplaced.
And I've lost the need to need you,
And the desire to remember your face.
And you could stand the moods for a lifetime,
But we don't have that luxury.
And in the future,
When you're looking back,
Is this really what you want to see?
And it shows our pain,
We fail and all we tried to do.
And anyway, no one ever stays.
Anyway.
Have mercy, please be kind to me.
Her eyes are pleading with you,
Have mercy, please be kind to me.
Her mouth, her mouth still whispers,
Have mercy, please be kind to me.
Her lips are faded, faded,
Have mercy, please be kind to me.
Her eyes are stained with tears and,
Have mercy, please be kind to me.