Metropolitan Media

© 1983 Sick Songs Ltd. All Rights Reserved.

Pretty fingers nibbling into my spine
I feel a rush a fixed ideal 
To stifle my mind
Indictment of a different kind
 
Ah, to rectify your endless pursuit
Of what you can’t obtain 
But you’ll try anyway to get your fix
And feed your brain and try to forget 
The fading dreams that rot with the time
Oh well we all live with ourselves in the end
Don’t We?
 
Ah, set in your chivalric novel
To be turned into a film
You set us up as your characters
To be spat on and dispensable
Don’t you? 
Like a used tissue
Discarded when worthless…
 
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