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Los Campesinos!
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Straight In At 101
作詞：Thomas Bromley, Gareth Paisey
I think we need more post-coital
And less post-rock
Feels like the build up takes forever
But you never get me off
You pull your dress over your face
And I stare down towards my chest
Chastise both our greasy hair
Wonder whose gut is the softest
Stand with my ear to the door
Listening to the landing floorboards
Working out when we'll be safe
To dash the mattress to your bathroom
Where I ball my fingers into fists
Until my knuckles glow bright white
Press the heels into eye sockets
'Til I see the flashing lights
Stop me when my stories change
When they have started to repeat
'Cause last time
I was a mess of sleep of icy feet
So baby, all apologies
It was going to happen inevitably
I think we need more post-coital
And less post-rock
Feels like the build up takes forever
But you never touch my cock
And what exactly do you mean now?
By what can you even eat?
And how does that affect?
How I'll get off this evening?
I flew down south to Mexico
Had a minor realization
I understood why kids draw the sun
With its rays emanating
And the beams broke the clouds
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The sky were like a concertina
A town in my pocket for weeks
Folded up from a picture
I've been playing straight chicken
With gay girls, it's never enough
She keeps on pulling the peace sign
And it seems like a torch
She licked the glaze on her lips
They shone like Battleship Grey
She never liked the wisdom I gave
Some people give themselves to religion
Some people give themselves to a cause
Some people give themselves to a lover
I have to give myself to goals
So baby, all apologies
It was going to happen inevitably
And if it helps, I mean even slightly at all
It's best you dust yourself down
And get straight back on the horse
I condescend a smile and wink
Directly at the camera
And leave you letting both our senses
I tiptoe out the backdoor
I skip down, I see streets in view
My face in the reflection
Of a High Street lingerie store
Though it wasn't my intention
I phoned my friends and family
To gather 'round the television
The talking heads count down the most
Heart wrenching break-ups of all time
Imagine the great sense of waste
The indignity, the embarrassment
When not a single one of that
Whole century was mine
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