Lyrics - Dog's Dinner


Anglepoise Why do you begin with Y? Anglepoise. I don't know why why begins with W. Anglepoise. Uncle Sam. Union Jack. Granny Smith. Plastic Mac. Anglepoise. Do I have to spell it out for you? I T O U T F O R Y O U. Anglepoise. Is an orange called an orange because it's orange? Anglepoise. Where do we come from? Where do we go? What do we do here? Anglepoise. Oscar's wild. Mervyne peeks. Terry waits. Wayne sleeps. Anglepoise. Do I have to spell it out again? I T O U T A G A I N. Anglepoise.

Zip I'm staying with the cauliflower, going straight to the fish. Don't get yourself in a stew, you're not my kind of dish. I like a frosted brussel sprout but cabbages I hate. Although there's not much on the menu I've an awful lot on my plate. I want to wine and dine you, polish and shine you. I want to walk and talk you, knife and fork you. I like a nice restaurant with slightly dimmed lights. A warm glow and the music low and I can stay all night. I like a well-laid tablecloth with mats to hide the stains. If the service is personal I just might come again. I want to wine and dine you, polish and shine you. I want to walk and talk you, knife and fork you. Hot chocolate's not my cup of tea, absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. Mocha's coffee mockery and coffee makes you ponder longer. Spirits lift your confidence but make you think you're Casanova. I've a kettle with a steaming spout if you want to come on over. I've some ambrosia pudding and concord wine - I'll really show you a good time. I want to wine and dine you, polish and shine you. I want to walk and talk you, knife and fork you. Smell you, breathe you, love you, leave you, chatter you, flatter you, doormat you. I sense the hour's getting late - the evening drawing to a close. I've got you underneath your skin - you underneath my clothes. You catch me looking at my watch - you watch me catch my zip. Time for a discreet retreat - forget about the tip.

A Bad Flight When Concorde touched down for the very last time were they drinking Concorde wine? Travelling faster than the speed of sound - did they get off and hear themselves land on the ground? It's that time of year I suppose, when things shut down, stop and close. Much shorter days and long long nights and the chances are a bad flight. A point of view largely depends on sharpness and focus and size of the lens. Can anyone see why we pretend, to be more American than Americans? It's that time of year I guess, when things seem strange and meaningless. Nights are black and mornings white and the chances are you'll have a bad flight. When spring's in the air and the air starts to warm it's amazing how negative thoughts can transform Into positive vibrant things - and when sap rises flirting and flings. But for now it's that time of year when doubters rule and cynics sneer. Gloom and doom mongers deal and backbite and the chances are you'll have a bad flight. It's still twelve o'clock whether midnight or noon. Everything's changing and some things not too soon. IDS symptoms may now be diminished but striking is back and it looks like concorde's finished. We're all going on a bad flight baby jet.

The Luddites are Calling Don't want Broadband, don't want the Internet. Don't want wide screen, can't use Ceefax yet. Megabytes and microchips, inventions for the sake of it. The Luddites are calling, the Luddites are calling you. The Luddites are calling but you can't hear, reception is too bad. Never wanted a patio or crazy paving. Never wanted stone cladding or double glazing. Don't want call centres or mobile phones, climate change and holey ozone. The Luddites are calling, the Luddites are calling you. The Luddites are calling but you can't hear, reception is too bad. Put a spanner in the works, invent a robot that walks and talks, patent it for future fame. Machines are revolting, General Ludd is sulking, taking stock and smashing frames. History repeats itself again. "Hello is Ned there? Ned Ludd? Hello! Can you hear me?" All stand up for General Ludd! All stand up for General Ludd! Technological innovations, automated automatons, post industrial legislation, centralised globalisation, instant credit for homeowner loans, capitalist drones and human clones. The Luddites are calling, the Luddites are calling you. The Luddites are calling but you can't hear reception is too bad. The Luddites are calling from out of time, interference on the line. The Luddites are calling you... All stand up for General Ludd! All stand up for General Ludd!

Dog's Dinner I wrote a song for you, but this isn't it, the one I wrote for you was shit. Far too familiar, not unique, the chorus was limp and weak. I wrote you another, this isn't it either, that one is too clear and precise. Yet too contradictory, too black and too white, you're either too nasty or too nice. A song needs to have a hook like a story. Like a book it needs a beginning, a middle and an end. Unless we split and bring an end to it, my song stays unfinished, my love undiminished and you get to stay my girlfriend. Because life's so short, it's probably better to talk, than keep things locked up in your mind. It's so useless to have sour grapes and juices, and lately I've been stewing in mine. So I get out my pen and try writing again, I pluck at the strings of my heart. I get a good sound and words almost profound but it still lacks the important part. A song needs to have a hook like a story. Like a book it needs a beginning, a middle and an end. Unless we split and bring an end to it, my song stays unfinished, my love undiminished and you get to stay my girlfriend. If you were me you wouldn't worry, you'd just say what's the hurry? It's quality that counts not speed. Never mind the quality feel the width, it doesn't matter who you're with as long as you're thinking of me. I try a new approach, dig out old songs I wrote, take the best bits from each one. Somehow it never seems to hang together and I feel like a thief and vagabond. I search for inspiration, divine intervention, go down blind alleys and cul-de-sacs. I bet you never thought I'd ask for guidance from the Lord but I need all the help that I can get. You say I'm out to lunch, things are coming to a crunch, I make a meal out of wordsmithery. Your approach is laissez faire, get your appetite elsewhere as long as you come home to eat with me. It's easy to write a song but hard to write a good one and not sound like a bedroom beginner. I've tried so hard to conceive a masterpiece but all I've achieved is this dog's dinner. A song needs to have a hook, like a story. Like a book it needs a beginning, a middle and an end. Unless we split and bring an end to it, my song stays unfinished, my love undiminished and you get to stay my girlfriend. So it looks like you're still my girlfriend.

Special Delivery I got some pigeon post today, it flew through my letterbox and I threw it away. If it takes you so long to reply to me, then I already know what the content will be. The snail trail stopped at my house today, it slid through my door but had nothing to say. If it takes you so long to write what's wrong, then it won't be worth reading anyway. Special delivery - ou put your stamp on it. Special delivery - I didn't even have to sign for it. Unwanted mail this morning. I recognised the writing and heeded the warning. Put it straight in the bin then went one better - I got it out again and put it through a shredder. Special delivery. It arrived too late and too heavy. Literally not worth the weight. I got some unrecorded post but you will never even know if I even read it through. Why I've sent no reply you'll just have to guess because after today I will have left this address.

Tom the Bigamist Tom the bigamist, had a tale with a twist, one spouse didn't know that the other one lives and two sons didn't know that two sisters exist. Tom the bigamist, two wives no less, two life policies, two different families and neither one knew about the other one. He was a divvy, a bit of a nutter, a dull head and butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Who would have thought that his wife lived up north and another lived down south? Tom was into bigamy, well paid and free. Drove up and down the country for his company - and what with all the extra hours and weekends away, each day felt like a honeymoon and a holiday. He got into bigamy watching TV. One of those shows featuring dysfunctional humanity - and Tom thought everyone seemed so in harmony. He had a vision but lost sight of his position because his vision was impaired. Seeing double got him into trouble, when his two lives and two wives collided and compared. He had a dream, a misguided scheme, a harem - and it took its toll. When fantasy, numeracy and others jealousy, got out of his control. The psychologist and the psychiatrist both insist he wasn't round the twist but just the opposite of a misogynist. They pleaded leniency for his bigamy. Citing evidence not of insanity, but of idiocy - and he got off lightly. Tom the nerd did his bird in two years - no less for good behaviour. His next of kin all visited him, each one acting the relative stranger. Now Tom's alone again, divorced from all his friends, his marriages ended as quickly as they began - but he's a happy man. Un-caged, engaged and looking good - he's in love.

Big Cheese See the girl with the blue dress on, standing on the corner like she's in a dream? She doesn't know whether to come or go, looks to the light, but they're just red and green. She's at the crossroads, seeing big loads running in her path - she walks away and goes back home. See the boy with the moody on, standing in the corner trying to look so mean? He doesn't care what he wears, he doesn't care with who he's seen. He's at the crossroads and only he knows what he's going to do and who he'll be when he gets home. A piss taker and a girl unsure - they don't know what they're aiming for so they just shoot. She's pleased that he's in jail, he sold out, she's up for sale, nine months gone and they're both serving two. Mother Nature and Father Time - the perfect couple but they don't have no friends. She's on a cycle going round and around, he's like a bomb tick ticking all the time. Nobody trusts him, they just use her and they're not liking that, so they won't play and take the ball home. Peacemakers in a time of war don't know what they're aiming for - they just say 'Shoot!'. A big cheese is going stale, the suntanned boss is going pale, the earth keeps turning and me and you will too.

(I've got) A Woolly Hat You've got a big house, a big car, two yachts, you own a bar. You'look good, you keep trim, you're in shape; you've got a gym. A big pool out the back, new teeth, a six pack, and I've got a woolly hat. You've got cash and stocks and shares, housemaids, aupairs. Designer clothes, diamond rings, outspoken views on everything. You've reached the top, you've made a stack but I've one thing that you lack, I've got a woolly hat. I've this image in my mind that I see from time to time - your face a picture of bliss as I push you into the abyss. Your money talks and helps you think, you've got your own private shrink. Your personalised number plates, are parked behind your iron gates. Your sense of humour's really crap, your objets d'art tasteless tat and I've got a woolly hat. I see it all in black and white, you're black and blue - just the same as when you were at school. Charisma charms the pants off everyone you meet but also makes you many enemies. You've got a big head, a big mouth, a big voice, you like to shout. You're well read, you're well versed, you're well hung and what is worse, you've got the girl, she's got the guy, the whole world, and what have I got? I've got a woolly hat.

I Can't Wait For Tomorrow. I can see you are blind. I can sense indifference too. What you want and what you're going find, won't make sense or change your view. You can't wait for tomorrow, you can't wait another day. You can't wait for tomorrow. You've got your God to follow, you make a mistake and you can pray. You've got your God to follow. I pretend I don't know but I can see it's true. Mere mortals here don't have wings or know where they're going to. I can't wait for tomorrow, I can't wait another day. I can't wait for tomorrow. You've got your God to follow, you make a mistake and then you pray. You've got your God to follow. There's hopefulness in everything you do and there's willingness and a sense of trust, I wish I had it too. I can see you are blind. I can sense the difference too. You can't wait for tomorrow, you can't wait another day. You can't wait for tomorrow. You've got your God to follow, you make a mistake and you just pray. You've got your God to follow. I can't wait for tomorrow. I can't wait another day.

Chicken Coop A pale imitation of his suntanned self with Dickie Davis hair and health and wealth. He's the perfect house and he's a perfect host, a chicken coming home to roast. Superstition - the meeting of neurosis and intuition. Staying on the right side of there's no point, carving up the meat and passing round the joint. Spitting feathers and splitting hairs doesn't enter the equation when you just don't care. A bird of prayer or a faux pas? A chicken coop or a coup de grace? Superstition - the meeting of neurosis and intuition. Life's so big and his part so small - yet to him the most important part of all. The egg thinks it's cleverer than the chicken but the chicken knows what's best. When you're running round headless, you really couldn't care less and you don't give a damn about the mess. Wearing sunglasses on a rainy day, keeps him in the dark while his hair turns grey. If his wings weren't clipped he'd fly away, like birds and planes and clouds and rain. Superstition - the meeting of neurosis and intuition. At an uncertain age it's no disgrace to have a little bit of egg on your face. The egg thinks it's cleverer than the chicken but the chicken knows what's best. What kind of man jumps straight back in the pan - leg or breast? Sunny side up or over easy, broken and scrambled, pale and dreamy. Poach them, boil them and put one in the oven, have them by the couple or have them by the dozen. His shell may be cracked and he's the butt of all jokes but you'll never teach granddad how to suck yolks. Deranged, free-ranged and chicken again. Which came first the egg or the hen?

Nasty Song You hold on tight. You come undone. You're always there when you want me hanging on. You'll see me right and prove me wrong. You'll be primed and prepared to go along with anything. Just to look good. You'd take all sides if you could. You speak when perhaps you should keep it shtum. But you insist. You're always right when you're pissed. Beating with words or with fists just for fun. I can't compete. You'll finish and you'll complete and even in defeat think you've won. I don't know what's wrong with me but here's another nasty song for a nasty person, it's hard to fit all the words in to a tune that you'll soon be whistling. I don't know what's wrong with me. Putting nasty words to a tune I'm strumming - another song that's just becoming another one you'll soon be humming. Because it doesn't matter what I do. You're so vain you probably won't think this song's about you. You're such a pain I bet you'll play it again and again won't you? You are so tight. You act so dumb. Exploitative and opportunistic with everyone. I don't know what's wrong with me. Writing nasty words that mean nothing to you. Should have settled it when I had the chance to - instead here's a score to dance to. This song's for you. So sing along. I'm so pleased that you're gone.

Tattoo He put a tattoo under his skin to make sure it never came off again. He did it himself with needle and ink, put 'I love you' on his eyelids so she could see it when he blinked. Love on the one hand, hat on the other - it's a pity that he lost his finger. Dad on one side, mum on the other, no room for another or it would have been his brother. A heart with an arrow through. A heart with a dagger through. It's a shame she forgot his name. War and peace, an emblem on his chest. Snakes and ladders peep out from underneath his vest. A sharp reminder of when he got so pissed, he had a work of art done by a street tattoo artist. A heart with an arrow through. A heart with a dagger through. A bit of pain for an old flame with a scar for a name. There was nothing left to do so he got a tattoo. He'd said everything and now it's under his skin. I heart you 4 me, a lasting memory, an 'I love you' on a fading tattoo. Some do it for love, some do it for lust, some do it for the kick, and some just do it. Some do it at the end, some do it at the start, some do it as commitment from the heart. Some do it for themselves, some do it for others, some do it 'cause they're lonely, some do it for their lovers. Some do it in secret, some do it for a show, some do it sober, some don't even know that they do it. some do it 'cause it hurts, some do it 'cause they're bored, some don't really know what they're doing it for. Some do it for their guru, some do it for the Lord, some don't really know who they're doing it for. He put a tattoo under his skin and now he wants to get it off again. He thought at the time he wouldn't want to forget it - never thought there'd be a time when he might regret it. He found a window on a corner that said it did it all - the permanent marker, the perfect scrawl. He chose the name, he chose the picture, he chose his non-redeeming feature. A heart with an arrow through. A heart with a dagger through. No one to blame, just a stain, in vein. There was nothing left to do so he got a tattoo. He'd said everything and now it's under his skin. I heart you 4 me, a lasting memory, an 'I love you' on a fading tattoo.

Fly Time goes slow. Better talk it through. Time goes quicker than you think you know. It's a cliche because it's true, just like most things we say and do. And words have ways of messing up the things we say. In any language I know it's true - our actions make more sense than we ever do. Don't wait for the sun to come. Don't wait for the clouds to move on. We've already waited too long. Reading signs. Mapping out and drawing lines. Make your plans now for all you're worth - step by step to your death from your birth. Don't wait for the sun to come. Don't wait for the clouds to move on. We've already waited too long. Just fly. I touch you and what do I feel? I listen to you and what do I hear? I look in your eyes and who do I see ...Me Don't wait for the sun to come. Don't wait for the clouds to move on. We've already waited too long. Just fly.

Chicken A zebra crossing looks left and right. A pelican crossing looks to the light. Everyone knows to use the green cross code but why did the chicken cross the road? A zebra crossing looks black and white. A pelican crossing might take to flight. Everyone knows to use the green cross code but why did the chicken cross the road? A zebra crossing is a wonderful sight. A pelican crossing is nice and bright. Everyone knows to use the green cross code, but why did the chicken cross the road?

All Expenses Paid This is a song called all expenses paid. I didn't write it, it came through me in six or seven days. I was thinking about Jesus and Mary and all that and how God's a nice chap and He'll forgive everything - and if He'll forgive everything what's the point in anything? So what's the point in anything? (It's a) holiday, (it's a) holiday, (it's an) all expenses paid holiday. Jesus are you there? Did you find your way home? What's it really like - the great unknown? If you really are there are you ever coming back? Let me know in advance so I can cancel everything that needs cancelling - I'd hate to miss you. (It's a) holiday, (it's a) holiday, (it's an) all expenses paid holiday. Jesus Christ, what did you expect? A wing and a prayer? A pretty safe bet? The odd ones favourite? The best's yet to come? When you're down on your knees wanting to believe, you find that wanting to believe leaves you wanting. (It's a) holiday, (it's a) holiday, (it's an) all expenses paid holiday. I keep talking to you but you never react and I could really do with some feedback. You may not listen to this until my demise but I love you, I forgive you, and I apologise.

Anthony Pig Anthony Pig, runt of the litter - bag slasher, bed wetter - and he never ever knew - he never ever knew what he did wrong. Anthony Pig, wider and fatter - greasy and fried, extra batter - and he never ever knew - he never ever knew what he did wrong. Anthony Pig, Anthony Pig. You can see him on the town. You can smell him on the piss. Sweat, smoke and aftershave. Large donna meat and chips. He's all the lads best mate. He's a karaoke singer. He's on coke without the ice. He's on Jerry Springer. Anthony Pig, Anthony Pig. Anthony Pig, big money spender - out and a lout on a bender - loud and proud and clothes appaling shouting and bawling, brawling, pub-crawling. White, red and blue. Patriotic too - and a moron. Anthony Pig, irritant - feculent - pig ignorant - and he never ever knew - he never ever knew what he did wrong. Lives in a pigsty. High, sly and work shy. He's on every holiday. He's in every town square. He's in your local takeaway. He's every bloody where. Anthony Pig. Anthony Pig. who's Anthony Pig?



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