The Gatecrasher 歌词

歌曲	The Gatecrasher
歌手	Momus
专辑	The Poison Boyfriend
下载	Image LRC TXT

	作词 : Momus
	He shows up at the party in a pair of dark glasses
	His grandfather wore in the war
	Saying nothing to no-one, just drinks as if that's
	What God gave him his ugly mouth for
	And he doesn't make passes at the girls in the corner
	In their Bolshevik glasses and black
	When they giggle a little and look at him funny
	The gatecrasher only looks back
	He takes in the faces, never quite placing them
	Squinting his short-sighted eyes
	And each one reminds him of someone he's known
	Or someone he faintly dislikes
	And he can't understand the naive curiosity
	Forcing two strangers to talk
	When language is always and everywhere language
	And people are like cheese and chalk
	So he lifts himself out of his squatting position
	And gets up for something to eat
	But the ham is too pink and the turkey is cardboard
	And the plate is as floppy as meat
	So he fills up his glass with a bottle of vodka
	Snatched from some new arrivals who stare
	As he tips back his head like a man seized with laughter
	And spits the drink into the fire
	And he looks so appealing with eyes like a bloodhound
	And hair like the 'Quatre Cent Coups'
	With the holes in his trousers designed to arouse us
	He looks like he'd know what to do
	On the rims of his eyes there's a trace of infection
	Or maybe the mark of a tear
	And is it mascara or is it bacteria, there where the white, where the white disappears?
	And which of those girls isn't scared of him
	And which of us isn't the same
	And maybe that's why, of the four of them
	No one remembers the gatecrasher's name
	Absentmindedly licking the tip of a finger
	He's just used for scratching his ear
	He wrinkles his nose at the taste of the wax
	Which, like him, is acidic and sour
	And just for a second something comes back to him
	Something so real and remote
	That he tips back his vodka to blank out the thought
	And he grins as it scorches his throat
	Maybe he thought of his mother, how she kicked out his father
	When he'd pushed her around once too much
	And how he'd pretended to sleep as she hugged him
	And how he'd been calmed by her touch
	Or he's sad with nostalgia for a little Italian
	He met in a bar in Milan
	While they swept up the glass on Piazza Fontana
	He knew she'd be thinking of him
	She'd be thinking of him
	Or he wonders why Hitler liked lemon verbena
	And whether he loved Eva Braun
	Or maybe he thinks of his cheap bed and breakfast
	On the far side of town

	zuo ci : Momus
	He shows up at the party in a pair of dark glasses
	His grandfather wore in the war
	Saying nothing to noone, just drinks as if that' s
	What God gave him his ugly mouth for
	And he doesn' t make passes at the girls in the corner
	In their Bolshevik glasses and black
	When they giggle a little and look at him funny
	The gatecrasher only looks back
	He takes in the faces, never quite placing them
	Squinting his shortsighted eyes
	And each one reminds him of someone he' s known
	Or someone he faintly dislikes
	And he can' t understand the naive curiosity
	Forcing two strangers to talk
	When language is always and everywhere language
	And people are like cheese and chalk
	So he lifts himself out of his squatting position
	And gets up for something to eat
	But the ham is too pink and the turkey is cardboard
	And the plate is as floppy as meat
	So he fills up his glass with a bottle of vodka
	Snatched from some new arrivals who stare
	As he tips back his head like a man seized with laughter
	And spits the drink into the fire
	And he looks so appealing with eyes like a bloodhound
	And hair like the ' Quatre Cent Coups'
	With the holes in his trousers designed to arouse us
	He looks like he' d know what to do
	On the rims of his eyes there' s a trace of infection
	Or maybe the mark of a tear
	And is it mascara or is it bacteria, there where the white, where the white disappears?
	And which of those girls isn' t scared of him
	And which of us isn' t the same
	And maybe that' s why, of the four of them
	No one remembers the gatecrasher' s name
	Absentmindedly licking the tip of a finger
	He' s just used for scratching his ear
	He wrinkles his nose at the taste of the wax
	Which, like him, is acidic and sour
	And just for a second something comes back to him
	Something so real and remote
	That he tips back his vodka to blank out the thought
	And he grins as it scorches his throat
	Maybe he thought of his mother, how she kicked out his father
	When he' d pushed her around once too much
	And how he' d pretended to sleep as she hugged him
	And how he' d been calmed by her touch
	Or he' s sad with nostalgia for a little Italian
	He met in a bar in Milan
	While they swept up the glass on Piazza Fontana
	He knew she' d be thinking of him
	She' d be thinking of him
	Or he wonders why Hitler liked lemon verbena
	And whether he loved Eva Braun
	Or maybe he thinks of his cheap bed and breakfast
	On the far side of town

	zuò cí : Momus
	He shows up at the party in a pair of dark glasses
	His grandfather wore in the war
	Saying nothing to noone, just drinks as if that' s
	What God gave him his ugly mouth for
	And he doesn' t make passes at the girls in the corner
	In their Bolshevik glasses and black
	When they giggle a little and look at him funny
	The gatecrasher only looks back
	He takes in the faces, never quite placing them
	Squinting his shortsighted eyes
	And each one reminds him of someone he' s known
	Or someone he faintly dislikes
	And he can' t understand the naive curiosity
	Forcing two strangers to talk
	When language is always and everywhere language
	And people are like cheese and chalk
	So he lifts himself out of his squatting position
	And gets up for something to eat
	But the ham is too pink and the turkey is cardboard
	And the plate is as floppy as meat
	So he fills up his glass with a bottle of vodka
	Snatched from some new arrivals who stare
	As he tips back his head like a man seized with laughter
	And spits the drink into the fire
	And he looks so appealing with eyes like a bloodhound
	And hair like the ' Quatre Cent Coups'
	With the holes in his trousers designed to arouse us
	He looks like he' d know what to do
	On the rims of his eyes there' s a trace of infection
	Or maybe the mark of a tear
	And is it mascara or is it bacteria, there where the white, where the white disappears?
	And which of those girls isn' t scared of him
	And which of us isn' t the same
	And maybe that' s why, of the four of them
	No one remembers the gatecrasher' s name
	Absentmindedly licking the tip of a finger
	He' s just used for scratching his ear
	He wrinkles his nose at the taste of the wax
	Which, like him, is acidic and sour
	And just for a second something comes back to him
	Something so real and remote
	That he tips back his vodka to blank out the thought
	And he grins as it scorches his throat
	Maybe he thought of his mother, how she kicked out his father
	When he' d pushed her around once too much
	And how he' d pretended to sleep as she hugged him
	And how he' d been calmed by her touch
	Or he' s sad with nostalgia for a little Italian
	He met in a bar in Milan
	While they swept up the glass on Piazza Fontana
	He knew she' d be thinking of him
	She' d be thinking of him
	Or he wonders why Hitler liked lemon verbena
	And whether he loved Eva Braun
	Or maybe he thinks of his cheap bed and breakfast
	On the far side of town

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