Good lyrics

[HOGEPH]

"And if looks could kill, I'd need a license for my face"

Del Amitri-When I Want You

[vixen1700]

The Gift - The Velvet Underground



Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant he had
been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had
to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone
calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to
Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would
date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.

But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when
he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning
underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes as he
pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of
some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion.
It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual
abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand how
she really was. He, Waldo, alone understood this. He had intuitively grasped
every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile. She needed him, and
he wasn't there (Awww...).

The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers' Parade was scheduled
to appear. He'd just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar
fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from
Marsha. There was nothing but a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company
of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck
him. He didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion,
true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself
parcel post, special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to
purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a
medium sized cardboard box just right for a person of his build. He judged that
with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes,
some water, perhaps some midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as
going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post
office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package
"Fragile", and as he sat curled up inside, resting on the foam rubber
cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and
happiness on Marshas face as she opened her door, saw the package, tipped the
deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She
would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of
this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne
up. He landed with a thud in a truck and was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough
weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about
it though. After it was over he'd said he still respected her and, after all,
it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn't love her, he
did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what
Bill could teach Waldo - but that seemed many years ago.

Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend, walked in through the porch screen
door and into the kitchen. "Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside." "Ach, I
know what you mean, I feel all icky!" Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton
robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on
the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face. "I'm supposed to be
taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like
throwing up." Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd
seen on television. "God, don't even talk about that." She got up from the
table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue
vitamins. "Want one? Supposed to be better than steak," and then attempted to
touch her knees. "I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the
telephone. "Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance. Sheila nibbled on
a cuticle. "After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him." "I
know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place."
She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. "The thing is, after a
while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all I didn't
really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him. You know
what I mean." She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over
her mouth. "I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," here
she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to!" Now she was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang
the doorbell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his
green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had
gotten out of her mother's small beige pocketbook in the den. "What do you
think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back.
She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living
room. "I dunno."

Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the
muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down
the center of the carton. "Why don't you look at the return address and see who
it's from?" Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the
vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. "Ah, god,
it's from Waldo!" "That schmuck!" said Sheila. Waldo trembled with expectation.
"Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila. Both of them tried to lift the
staple flap. "Ah sst," said Marsha, groaning, "he must have nailed it shut."
They tugged on the flap again. "My God, you need a power drill to get this
thing open!" They pulled again. "You can't get a grip." They both stood still,
breathing heavily.

"Why don't you get a scissor," said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but
all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her
father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs, and when
she came back up, she had a large sheet metal cutter
in her hand. "This is the best I could find." She was very out of breath.
"Here, you do it. I-I'm gonna die." She sank into a large fluffy couch and
exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the
end of the cardboard flap, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough
room. "God damn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated. Then smiling,
"I got an idea." "What?" said Marsha. "Just watch," said Sheila, touching her
finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could
barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat, and he could feel his
heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and
walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her
knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath, and plunged the
long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through
the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of
Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red
to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

[Chunkymonkey71]

Anything by Spinal Tap!

[ClassicMotorNut]

Get your motor running,
Get out on the highway...
I like smoke and lightning,
Heavy metal thunder...

BORN TO BE WIIIIIIIIILD!!!!!

Absolutely everything in that song. Same goes for Bat Out of Hell.

Also, I'm very fond of the lyrics of The Boxer, I Am a Rock and The Sound of Silence. They're all very deep and meaningful.

[Papa Hotel]

Simon and Garfunkel, America.

Laughing on the bus
Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said "Be careful his bowtie is really a camera"

[HarryFlatters]

Most of Ginger Wildheart's back catalogue is chock-a-block with great lyrics.

[scoobyfreak10]

HarryFlatters said:

Most of Ginger Wildheart's back catalogue is chock-a-block with great lyrics.

AGREED TOTALLY and can`t wait for mutation and hey hello to be delivered

[Justin Cyder]

Simon & Garfunkel always winners. Hello darkness my old friend...

Stone Roses: Sometimes I fantasise/when the streets are cold & lonely/and the cars they burn below me.

[Jaykaybi]

John Mayer
"Walt Grace's Submarine Test, January 1967"


Walt Grace,
Desperately hating his old place
Dreamed to discover a new space
And buried himself alive
Inside his basement
The tongue on the side of his face meant
He's working away on displacement
And what it would take to survive

'Cause when you're done with this world
You know the next is up to you

And his wife told his kids he was crazy
And his friends said he'd fail if he tried
But with the will to work hard and a library card
He took a homemade, fan blade, one-man submarine ride

That morning the sea was mad and I mean it
Waves as big as he'd seen it deep in his dreams at home
From dry land, he rolled it over to wet sand
Closed the hatch up with one hand
And pedalled off alone

'Cause when you're done with this world
You know the next is up to you

And for once in his life, it was quiet
As he learned how to turn in the tide
And the sky was aflare when he came up for air
In his homemade, fan blade, one-man submarine ride

One evening, when weeks had passed since his leaving
The call she planned on receiving finally made it home
She accepted the news she never expected
The operator connected the call from Tokyo

'Cause when you're done with this world
You know the next is up to you

Now his friends bring him up when they're drinking
At the bar with his name on the side
And they smile when they can, as they speak of the man
Who took a homemade, fan blade, one-man submarine ride

[mrmaggit]

Fish writes some excellent lyrics.

Number 1 at the end of the Bar.

I don't want to be a tin-can tied to the wedding limousine.

Currently residing in the "where are they now" file.

Doctors son, a parsons daughter
where why not and should they oughta
Please don't lie upon the grass,
Unless accompanied by a fellow,
May I be so bold as to suggest "Othello"?

And not forgetting:-

So here I am once more in the playground of the broken hearts,
one more experience, one more entry in a diary, self-penned
Yet another emotional suicide overdosed on sentiments and pride
Too late to say I love you, Too late to re-stage the play
Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday. Not bad for track one, side one, album one, is it?

[Pesty]

Carter are the best at lyrics for me

And the banners and badges
And your anarchist friends
Say "Apocalypse now, man”
And "Never again"

But this st is fked
As they say in the U. S .A

And they say it in Mexico, London and Jericho
Berlin and Birmingham, Belfast and Tokyo
Amsterdam, Vietnam, Iran, Afghanistan
Disneyland, Narnia, former Yugoslavia

Suicide isn't painless


Suicide isn't painless
It hurts like Hell
It's set aside for the famous
A little suicide sells

Nothing lasts forever
But nothing ever did
It's big but it's not clever
And it's really not that big

So no more tears
You're a big boy now
We'll have a few more beers
We'll sort it out somehow


a prince in a pauper's grave

And it's go Johnny go
Where the bruises don't show
In the church yard wherre the nervous get wrecked
And turn off your wireless
For two minutes of silence
Cough up and pay your respects

Edited by Pesty on Friday 31st May 16:58

[Pixel Pusher]

So there she was
Buns up and kneelin'
I was wheelin' and a dealin'
My ace in the hole so to speak





Any guesses?

[Severian]

Girl keeps comming apart

[Pixel Pusher]

Severian said:

Girl keeps comming apart

spot on

[Champhill]

One of my favourite lyricists is Andrew Eldritch of The Sisters Of Mercy who penned this beautiful poem and then set it to music.


Some Kind Of Stranger

And yes I believe in what we had but words got in the way
And only yesterday, as I was leaving, Lord knows I've tried to say
But I've heard a million conversations going where they've been before
Seen the way that careful lingers undecided at the door

And all I know for sure, all I know for real
Is knowing doesn't mean so much
When placed against the feeling, the heat inside
When bodies meet, when fingers touch

All my words are secondhand and useless in the face of this
Rationale and rhyme and reason, pale beside a single kiss
And I've heard so many things, I fail to understand at all
I'd settle anytime for unknown footsteps in the hall outside

And all I know for sure, all I know for real
Is knowing doesn't mean so much
When placed against the feeling, the heat inside
When bodies meet, when fingers touch

Because the world is cruel and promises are broken
Don't try to tell me anything, don't try to tell me
You'll be true to me, you know the real truth is never spoken

And I know the world is cold but if you hold on tight to what you
Find you might not mind too much though
Even this must pass away

And memories may last for years but
Names are just for souvenirs
Some kind of angel, let me look into your eyes

Don't give me why's and wherefore's reason or surprise
I don't care for words that don't belong

And I don't care what you're called, tell me later if at all
I can wait a long, long time, before I hear another love song

Come here I think you're beautiful
My door is open wide
Some kind of angel come inside

Come here I think you're beautiful
I think you're beautiful, beautiful
Some kind of angel come inside

Come here I think you're beautiful
I think you're beautiful
Some kind of angel come inside

Come here I think you're beautiful
My door is open wide
Some kind of stranger come inside

Come here I think you're beautiful
I think you're beautiful, beautiful
Some kind of stranger come inside

Come here I think you're beautiful
I think you're beautiful
Some kind of stranger come inside

Come here I think you're beautiful
My door is open wide
Some kind of stranger come inside

Come here I think you're beautiful
I think you're beautiful, beautiful
Some kind of stranger come inside

[TwigtheWonderkid]

Bowie - Scary Monsters

"I love the little girl and I'll love her 'til the day she dies."

[anonymous-user]

Papa Hotel said:

Simon and Garfunkel, America.

Laughing on the bus
Playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said "Be careful his bowtie is really a camera"

"Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike, they've all come to look for America!"

I nominate The Boxer:

said:

I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest

When I left my home and my family
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station running scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places only they would know

Lie la lie ...

Asking only workman's wages
I come looking for a job
But I get no offers,
Just a come-on from the wes on Seventh Avenue
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there

Lie la lie ...

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone
Going home
Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me
Bleeding me, going home

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains

Lie la lie ...

[Papa Hotel]

Another from Simon and Garfunkel, I am a Rock.

I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.

Paul Simon: the best songwriter of all time. Fact.

[ClassicMotorNut]

You're all just copying me now.

[Papa Hotel]

ClassicMotorNut said:

You're all just copying me now.

Didn't notice the S&G tracks in your post, skimmed over when I saw Born to be Wild.