Guts

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Ca sĩ: John Cale

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The bugger in the short sleeves fucked my wife

Did it quick and split

Back home, fresh as a daisy to maisy, oh maisy

And the twelve-bore it stood in the corner

Quite operatic in its self disgust

It blew him all over the living room floor

Like parrot shit, parrot spit, parrot shit was shot

Now suppose it was someone familiar

Someone we all would know

Embarrasing denouement, ne c'est pas?

Familiar hyperbole

And there would go the secret plot

The piss had missed the hole in the pot

Like that ancient teenage dream

From soul to poison soul to poison soul

Guts, guts, got no guts

And stitches don't help at all

Guts, guts, got no guts

Holes in the body, holes in the legs

Holes in the forehead, holes in the head

Holes in the body, holes in the legs

There should never be holes at all

There should never be holes at all

So: kill all you want or more

Make sure, do it right

Dead is dead, and door nails forget

And then you'll notice

How the waster and the wasted

Get to look like one another

In the end, in the end

In the end, in the end

In the end, in the end

In the end, in the end

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