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    John Cooper Clarke / Lyrics

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    "Beasley Street [Album Version]" Lyrics

    John Cooper Clarke

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    Far from crazy pavements
    The taste of silver spoons
    A clinical arrangement
    On a dirty afternoon
    Where the fecal germs of Mr Freud
    Are rendered obsolete
    The legal term is "null and void"
    In the case of Beasley 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 death
    Belladonna is your flower
    Manslaughter your meat
    Spend a year in a couple of hours
    On the edge of Beasley 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 Beasley 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, opens up
    Right down on Beasley 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 Beasley Street
    Silence is the code

    Hot beneath the collar
    An inspector calls
    Where the perishing stink of squalor
    Impregnates the walls
    The rats have all got rickets
    They spit through broken teeth
    The name of the game is not cricket
    Caught out on Beasley Street

    The hipster and his hired hat
    Drive a borrowed car
    Yellow socks and a pink cravat
    Nothing, la-dee-dah
    OAP, mother-to-be
    Watch the three-piece suite
    When shit-stoppered drains
    And crocodile skis
    Are seen on Beasley Street

    The kingdom of the blind
    A one-eyed man is king
    Beauty problems are redefined
    The doorbells do not ring
    A lightbulb bursts like a blister
    The only form of heat
    Here a fellow sells his sister
    Down the river on Beasley 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
    Sixteen Beasley 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 Beasley 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 easy, cheesy, greasy, queasy
    Beastly Beasley Street

    Eyes dead as vicious fish
    Look around for laughs
    If I could have just one wish
    I would be a photograph
    On a permanent Monday morning
    Get lost or fall asleep
    When the yellow cats are yawning
    Around the back of Beasley Street
    This song was submitted on November 24th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC.
    Written by John Cooper Clarke, Martin Hannett, Stephen Hopkins.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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