John Cooper Clarke - Beezley Street lyrics

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John Cooper Clarke - Beezley Street lyrics

Far flung crazy pavements crack The sound of empty rooms A clinical arrangement A dirty afternoon Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud Are rendered obsolete The legal term is null and void In the case of Beezley Street In the cheap seats where murder breeds Somebody is out of breath Sleep is a luxury they don't need A sneak preview of d**h Deadly nightshade is your flower Manslaughter your meat Spend a year in a couple of hours On the edge of Beezley Street Where the action isn't That's where it is State your position Vacancies exist In an X-certificate exercise Ex-servicemen excrete Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies In a box on Beezley Street From the boarding houses and the bedsits Full of accidents and fleas Somebody gets it Where the missing persons freeze Wearing dead men's overcoats You can't see their feet A riff joint shuts and opens up Right down on Beezley Street Cars collide, colours clash Disaster movie stuff For a man with a Fu Manchu moustache Revenge is not enough There's a dead canary on a swivel seat There's a rainbow in the road Meanwhile on Beezley Street Silence is the mode It's hot beneath the collar It's cold beneath the balls Where the perishing stink of squalor Impregnates the walls The rats have all got rickets They spit through broken teeth A blood stain is your ticket One way down Beezley Street The gangster and his hired hat Drive a borrowed car He looks like the Duke of Edinburgh But no so lah-di-dah OAP mother to be Watch that three-piece suite When sh**stopper drains And crocodile skis Are seen on Beezley Street The kingdom of the blind Where the one-eyed man is king Beauty problems are redefined The doorbells do not ring Light bulbs pop like blisters The only form of heat Were a fellow sells his sister Down the river on Beezley Street The boys are on the wagon The girls are on the shelf Their common problem Is that they're not someone else The dirt blows out The dust blows in You can't keep it neat It's a fully furnished dustbin, 16 Beezley Street Vince the ageing savage Betrays no kind of life But the smell of yesterday's cabbage And the ghost of last year's wife Through a constant haze Of deodorant sprays He says retreat Alsations dog the dirty days Down the middle of Beezley Street Eyes dead as vicious fish Look around for laughs If I could have just one wish I would be a photograph On this permanent Monday morning Get lost or fall asleep When the yellow cats are yawning Around the back of Beezley Street People turn to poison quick As lager turns to piss Sweethearts are physically sick Every time they kiss It's a sociologist's paradise Each day repeats On uneasy cheesy greasy queasy beastly Beezley Street