Still a Bitch
I’m the cobwebbed stairs, the ancient bones
I’m the shadow rippling cobblestones,
I’m the stagnant swamp, the black lagoon
I’m the branches scratching at the moon
I’m the funeral service, the unknown mourner
I’m the demon cowering in the corner
I’m the sexton’s spade, the new thrown clay
I’m what’s left when they walk away
I’m the ebony coffin, satin lining
Pale thin lips in the back
I’m the shadow rippling cobblestones,
I’m the stagnant swamp, the black lagoon
I’m the branches scratching at the moon
I’m the funeral service, the unknown mourner
I’m the demon cowering in the corner
I’m the sexton’s spade, the new thrown clay
I’m what’s left when they walk away
I’m the ebony coffin, satin lining
Pale thin lips in the back
Generation Sex
Down on Festive Road
The children will play
And never will know
That when Mr Benn
Of Number 52
Walks in through that door
Peculiar events will ensue
The shopkeeper peers
Through spectacles round
As Benn wanders in
And shuts out the town
The shopkeeper wears his customary grin
'Cos he knows when they go
To try on his clothes
Each fantasy chosen begins