Lyrics - Alternativity ep


Alternativity It’s not December - it is June but my tree’s not coming down till you walk back into the room. Your dinner’s in the oven, your pudding’s well matured and here’s your Christmas song - unheard. I know I never needed you before but now there’s needles all over the floor. Needless to say - my tree bows bare. I’m stuck here in Christmas time. My belly’s on the blink and I stink of cheap mulled wine. The fairy on the tree is all tangled up in tinsel and its wand has lost its twinkle. I never thought that you would leave but you unpacked Santa’s sack and turned your back on Christmas Eve. Needless to say - my tree bows bare. There’s a cracker on the table just waiting to be pulled. I banged mine alone last night and felt a lowly tool. A little plastic heart fell out, the joke inside’s on me – something about lonely pricks being folly and not jolly holly. Six months ago this little baby boy was born. Now his mistletoe is limp and looking all forlorn. The moment you turned on the lights the cold ice went all slushy – this dog’s for life you know, not just a puppy. I fed your firry tree with love and dedication but I’d have been better off if I’d have got an imitation. Needless to say - my tree bough’s bare. I’ve face-booked and I’ve tweeted but I think you have deleted me by accident – it’s easy at this time of year. So I re-mailed you all my details but my messages must have failed ‘cause this turkey’s all dressed up and you’re not here. And I’m desperately pining for some Christmas cheer. At least it’s only six months till the same time, same place, next year. I’m gonna spruce myself up, dress myself down – next year’s Christmas is there for the taking. The tree will still be up, the lights will still be on. I’ve done your Christmas song and I don’t mind waiting.

Bats in the Belfry She wrote a Dear John letter on a John Deere tractor, he had a habbit of the hobbit that he couldn’t shake. She married farmer Farmer Palmer, a farmer and a charmer, John thought he was a Bilbo – big mistake. He liked to curry favour, she likes the curry flavour, on their best behaviour they make a meal of it. MSG and lots of sodium, in love and in harmonium, random pandemonium. Sick as a parrot, a flaccid fat flamingo, a rotten russet fish, a big flat dingo that’s got the cat’s whiskers, a very eager beaver, a golden retriever, hair of the dog. Into the thicket, on a sticky wicket, it’s just not cricket, back to the bar. Bigger than her belly, nothing on the telly, feet are very smelly, put them in a jar. She’s got bats in the belfry – you can hear her nerves jangling. She’s had too much man-handling – she needs a bit of understanding. Light as a feather, a floating Barbarella, Sweet Fanny Adams on the horn of a diemma. Fresh as a daisy, forty winks crazy, not what you call lazy, just out for the count. A double doubting Thomas with some used-by garlic humus will no doubt cause a big fuss and a bit of a stink. But better that than Larry who can’t help but dilly-dally, you wish he wouldn’t shilly-shally then he goes on the blink. There’s bats in the belfry – you can hear their nerves jingling. Down the blind alley – dangling from the ceiling. It’s all a bit cloak and dagger, more swoon than swagger. A bit of a blagger... Who said that?! ‘Es a slim feller – a bit Paul Weller, likes a portabella mushroom omelette. Cor Blimey, it’s a bit slimey. It’s not s’pposed to be like that – but it’s safe. To the chattering classes he’s the talk of the masses, chewing the fat and spilling his beans. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, lunch at Serendipity’s, tea and supper at Veranda’s and snacks in-between. There’re bats in the belfy, we’ve all gone to Coventry on a one way ticket to see a man about a dog. It’s all onwards and upwards, no worries, luvly jubly, would you like a drop of bubbly, but oh, It could have been me. It should have been me. It could have been me. It should have been me. It could have been me. It should have been me. Here comes the hooker in her best bib and tucker, arms akimbo, big girl’s blouse. I wouldn’t want to knock it but someone’s got to stop it, more than suspicions are aroused. She’s a bit of a looker, a copper-bottomed pressure cooker, a pusher not a sucker, broad in the beam. She’s got cash in the attic but it makes her quite asthmatic, still there’s something quite fantastic when she rubs in the cream. ‘Es a big geezer – like a Gazza in Ibizi, tattoos on his teaser, knocking back the gin. Fit as a fiddle, a doddle on the diddle, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it swim. Alpha and omega, truth and non-believers, achievers and mischievous, slim and fat. As queer as a nine bob, as friendly as a hobnob, it’s got to be a proper job. Not like that. Not like that. Not like that. Like that. You’ve been barking up the wrong tree, chasing down the wrong tail, running round in circles, losing heart. You keep looking at the big map, OS clap-trap but if you keep turning corners, you end up back at the start. ‘Es a bit larey, a bit airy-fairy, he’s the one -flew out of the cuckoo’s nest. Never wanted to be famous now they’ve all got it in for me, I’m a victim of my own success. Clean as a whistle, every jot and tittle, it’s and eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. In a lick and a promise she gives it lip service, right as a ninepiece – blame it on the youth. Lock, stock and barrel, in fine fettle, if the fly’s in the ointment it doesn’t damage rose. One big swallow won’t make a sunny tomorrow, you can pay on the nail but you still smell through the nose. The customer is right, the customer is king but in a fool’s paradise, there’s something wrong with the bling. Fairtrade and organic still rots to the roots and you still get the runs when you eat forbidden fruits. She’s got bats in the belly – you can hear her stomach rumbling. Butterflies taking– amongst the fumbling and the mumbling. Take us as you find us – not as you please, it’s all above board, this bee’s got knees. The caps on the napper but keep it under your hat. This lady’s not for turning – hows about that. Here’s laughin’ boy with another dodgy motor, a bolt from the blue, a screw-loose Walter. He scrubs up well, clean as a whistle, giving small beer down the Dog and Thistle . And there’s bats in the belfry – you can hear them high-fiving. Snakes in the bosom – slippery, writhing. It’s a bit cloak and dagger, more swoon than swagger. A bit of a blagger... Who said that?! Don’t over-egg the bacon, you might be mistaken, sick as a parrot, repeating, repeating. Got to cut to the fat, tooth and nail, give the sausage the swerve, there’s a sting in the tail. Keep your shell’likes grounded, stop them from burning, like a portabella mushroom, they’ll shrivel if spurned . All walls have ears, just join the dots. And there we are – x marks the spot. There’re bats in the belfy, we’ve all gone to Coventry on a one way ticket to see a man about a dog. It’s all onwards and upwards, no worries, luvly jubly, would you like a drop of bubbly, but oh, It could have been me. It should have been me. It could have been me. It should have been me. It could have been me. It should have been me. She wrote a Dear John letter on a John Deere tractor, he had a habbit of the hobbit, that she couldn’t shake. He’s light as a feather, a floating Barbarella Sweet Fanny Adams on the horn of a diemma. He’s a double doubting Thomas eating used-by garlic humus, will no doubt cause a big fuss and a bit of a stink. He’ll look you in the eye and give a tooth for a hoof. You can take a horse to water but you can’t make it blink. On a wild goose chase flushing out the pheasants, not very pleasant but at least it’s a job. We’re all under friendly fire, all hammer and tonguing it, we know it’s all wrong – but so what. An Englishman’s home is his Elephant and castle, it causes lots of hassle but you never forget. May I paraphrase and propose a propostion? It’s not s’pposed to be like that... Not like that. Not like that. Not like that. Like that.



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