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letra de olde english - beck

bottle up pain and you were better off dead
and i would rather love your daughter, but it’s gone to my head
jukebox playing with a notion to explode
drag racers bent on bending the road
entertainers with no charms to speak of
a circus of fleas, a band of spooks
neighborly ghosts looking at you
heavy metal music like a ratchet to a truck
glowing in the dark and you’re just out of luck
walking with a suitcase and a crack pipe to boot
throw the dead bodies down a laundry chute
breaking bones and shattering knives
plow your face into a field, bury your eyes
i packed my bags, i got out of town
yeah, i took up with a traveling show, but i couldn’t stick around
’cause the funhouse went all up in flames
and the carousel horses leaped out from their chains
i took a car, i was ready to drive
i put down the top, i was more dead than alive
one foot on the brakes, yeah one foot on the gas
one foot on the brakes, a pocket calculator to count all your mistakes
all nervous words that fall into a pile
living in some personality with no particular style
i speak the sound of hollow logs and walk the dance of rags
tombstone skateboards and underwear flags
hide in a trailer park for a year or so
got some groceries, waiting for the beard to grow
the old man next door said you won’t live long
i’m telling you, i said i know i always knew this was true
but i been seeing things, and i been shedding a lot of skin
and i found myself in a back of a burned-out fire engine
and then i took a long way at a dead end
the end of the line, born of no name, the hard luck child
too many times caught between the extremes
bullfight blow flies border magazines
a hundred eyes with a quarter of a brain
rock and roll, post-coital let down again
flamethrower tv dinner electric frozen grin
dragstrip, bullwhip, rocket ship tailspin
bluegr-ss, eyegl-ss, motion picture jam
cannonball, summersault, faker in the can
i’m wound up, plastic wino breathing haze
umbrella shadows white light daze
convenient store fruit pie deranged men and more
one-armed folksinger chewing on the floor
ragtime whiskeyman, bottle of snuff
box of junk and a crocket of stuff
chillin’ like gilligan…

- beck

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