City smells of paperbacks rolled up in jacket pockets
Paperbacks that serve to say "Yes I'm well read, now will you f** me?"
City smells of lonesome singers singing lonesome songs
In a barroom where the shadows they grow longer with each note he fails to catch
The city smells of you, woke up in dope-sick stupor
I'm here, I lay awake in case you needed me
For when I fall asleep I'm hard to shake, what with the pills I have to take
To force the dreams back to the bottom of the arsehole of my mind
Country smells of taunting spiteful train-tracks
And the faces that peer out along the way to somewhere I'm afraid to go
Smells of sun-bleached stones and sitting out reading de Sade
On April evenings, with the dusk accentuating every syllable
The country smells of hope, of hope for progression
Progression, and I will progress in spite of what I say
Country smells of memories and words that I might speak
Or I might sing to you, if you were not so f**in far away
City pierces sky, country hugs the dirt, and I here someplace in-between
Not quite the wind, not quite the soil
City reeks of loves I long to gain, the country, loves that I destroyed
And destroyed all that they had touched, and they touched me, they silenced me
The night-time smells of scheming and of plotting
In the morning it's forgotten
For the morning smells of cold reality
The night-time is that city and that sky with stars obscured by neon etchings
From the gutters to the rooftops, never dimmin, never die
Never dimmin, never die