Grease was the word, or so they had heard,
the in-crowd at CBGBs,
dancing in pairs, sporting colourful flares,
they cared not for England's BeeGees,
but when Maurice & Robin got the floor throbbin',
fine tuned by Barry's falsetto,
a new sound was hip, the wigs they did flip
and flares flapped to the beat of the ghetto
Wreck & ruin, wrath & scorn,
pay the price & call king pawn
The sixties chicks who look for love by clicking on a mouse,
with faded dreams & beauty creams, they're lonely in the house
the older guys are full of lies, whatever it takes to score,
their stories fake, they're on the make, they're rotten to the core
The damp is slowly risin' & there's static on the line,
this run down crib i'm callin' home is sadly in decline
the cracks are growin' wider and the garden's overgrown,
at night i hear the raindrops & a black tomcat moan
to kill the time i draw a bath & soak myself in gin,
the road is rough, the days are tough, i'm tempted into sin ©
No comments:
Post a Comment