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The Indelicates
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Dovahkiin
There'll be no songs about you
Your deeds will remain untold
The words that they use
Leave you limp and confused
And resigned to grow silently old
You could handle a weapon
You could lay down your life in a war
But you're fat now and weakened
By the code that they speak in
Not welcome in this land no more
But put on your shoes
The fair lands are calling
For the last man
To fall toward them
From the sun
You've got boring unlovely depression
It blunts you and hobbles your will
It makes you feel sick
To see these beautiful pricks
Build careers being beautifully ill
They flit and they flutter about you
They're offended and never ashamed
And everything's shit
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And this shithole called Britain
Takes your sickness in place of your name
But put on your shoes
The fair lands are calling
For the last man
To fall toward them
From the sun
Put on your shoes
Leave no letters behind you
Leave the perfume
And the dancing
And run
And I know it seems like there's no one
And the street's too sweet to walk on
And you'll break it with your boots if you go
And I know it seems like there's no one
And if there is, then you don't know them
But I swear that there's someone
Somewhere
Someone
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