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Far from crazy pavements |
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The taste of silver spoons |
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A clinical arrangement |
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On a dirty afternoon |
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Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud |
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Are rendered obsolete |
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The legal term is null and void |
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In the case of Beasley Street |
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In the cheap seats where murder breeds |
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Somebody is out of breath |
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Sleep is a luxury they don't need |
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A sneak preview of death |
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Belladonna is your flower |
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Manslaughter your meat |
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Spend a year in a couple of hours |
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On the edge of Beasley Street |
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Where the action isn't |
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That's where it is |
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State your position |
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Vacancies exist |
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In an X-certificate exercise |
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Ex-servicemen excrete |
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Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies |
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In a box on Beasley Street |
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From the boarding houses and the bedsits |
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Full of accidents and fleas |
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Somebody gets it |
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Where the missing persons freeze |
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Wearing dead men's overcoats |
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You can't see their feet |
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A riff joint shuts opens up |
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Right down on Beasley Street |
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Cars collide, colors clash |
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Disaster movie stuff |
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For a man with a Fu Manchu mustache |
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Revenge is not enough |
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There's a dead canary on a swivel seat |
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There's a rainbow in the road |
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Meanwhile on Beasley Street |
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Silence is the code |
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Hot beneath the collar |
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An inspector calls |
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Where the perishing stink of squalor |
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Impregnates the walls |
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The rats have all got rickets |
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They spit through broken teeth |
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The name of the game is not cricket |
|
Caught out on Beasley Street |
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The hipster and his hired hat |
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Drive a borrowed car |
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Yellow socks and a pink cravat |
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Nothing la-di-dah |
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OAP, mother to be |
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Watch the three-piece suite |
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When shit-stoppered drains |
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And crocodile skis |
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Are seen on Beasley Street |
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The kingdom of the blind |
|
A one-eyed man is king |
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Beauty problems are redefined |
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The doorbells do not ring |
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A light bulb bursts like a blister |
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The only form of heat |
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Here a fellow sells his sister |
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Down the river on Beasley Street |
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The boys are on the wagon |
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The girls are on the shelf |
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Their common problem is |
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That they're not someone else |
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The dirt blows out |
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The dust blows in |
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You can't keep it neat |
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It's a fully furnished dustbin |
|
Sixteen Beasley Street |
|
Vince the aging savage |
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Betrays no kind of life |
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But the smell of yesterday's cabbage |
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And the ghost of last year's wife |
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Through a constant haze |
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Of deodorant sprays |
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He says retreat |
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Alsatians dog the dirty days |
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Down the middle of Beasley Street |
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People turn to poison |
|
Quick as lager turns to piss |
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Sweethearts are physically sick |
|
Every time they kiss |
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It's a sociologist's paradise |
|
Each day repeats |
|
On easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy |
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Beastly Beasley Street |
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Eyes dead as vicious fish |
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Look around for laughs |
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If I could have just one wish |
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I would be a photograph |
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On a permanent Monday morning |
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Get lost or fall asleep |
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When the yellow cats are yawning |
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Around the back of Beasley Street |
