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The Beautiful South
The Beautiful South




Music World  →  Lyrics  →  T  →  The Beautiful South  →  Albums  →  Blue Is The Colour

The Beautiful South Album


Blue Is The Colour (1996)
1996
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. . .



Think of you with pipe and slippers
Think of her in bed
Laying there just watching telly
Then think of me instead

I'll never grow so old and flabby
That could never be
Don't marry her, fuck me [ Don't marry her, have me ]

And your love light shines like cardboard
But your work shoes are glistening
She's a Ph.D in "I told you so"
You've a knighthood in "I'm not listening"

She'll grab your sweaty bollocks [ She'll grab your Sandra Bullocks ]
Then slowly raise her knee
Don't marry her, fuck me [ Don't marry her, have me ]

And the Sunday sun shines down on San Francisco bay
And you realise you can't make it anyway
You have to wash the car
Take the kiddies to the park
Don't marry her, fuck me [ Don't marry her, have me ]

Those lovely Sunday mornings
With breakfast brought in bed
Those blackbirds look like knitting needles
Trying to peck your head
Those birds will peck your soul out
And throw away the key
Don't marry her, fuck me [ Don't marry her, have me ]

And the kitchen's always tidy
And the bathroom's always clean
She's a diploma in "just hiding things"
You've a first in "low esteem"

When your socks smell of angels
But your life smells of Brie
Don't marry her, fuck me [ Don't marry her, have me ]

And the Sunday sun shines down on San Francisco bay
And you realise you can't make it anyway
You have to wash the car
Take the kiddies to the park
Don't marry her, fuck me [ Don't marry her, have me ]

And the Sunday sun shines down on San Francisco bay
And you realise you can't make it anyway
You have to wash the car
Take the kiddies to the park
Don't marry her, fuck me [ Don't marry her, have me ]

. . .



You can't write a novel from a briefcase
You can write a poem from a trench
You can dream a dream from A to B
But you can't catch a bus from a bench

You don't back a horse called Striding Snail
You don't name your boat Titanic II
So why when I see your happy smiling face
Do I always end up singing Little Blue

Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven
but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty
be so laden down with dew
Little Blue

How can a flower so pretty
be so laden down with dew
Little Blue

You can't build a brewery on a cemetery
You can build a pub on a church
And people fall quicker than buildings do
You have to decide what comes first

You don't call a plane the Flying Roman
'Cause the Romans always walked and never flew
So why when I see your happy smiling face
Do I always end up singing Little Blue

Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven
but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty
be so laden down with dew
Little Blue

Well Bukowski wrote a story from a barstool
And Keats from the top of a hill
So I'm going to save my special song for you
From a grave where it's quiet and it's chill

'Cause there's a queue of clouds assembled
On the horizon of your smile
When most think that you're holding back
I know you're holding bile

Little Blue, how do you do
Your smile looks like heaven
but your eyes hold a storm about to brew
Little Blue
How can a flower so pretty
be so laden down with dew
Little Blue

How can a flower so pretty
be so laden down with dew
Little Blue

. . .



They could be fat or could be thin
They could be black, they could be white
Tell me who's knocking at the knocking shop door tonight

Not much a girl can do but open or close
Those things are above doors
Not much legs can do but open or close
Those things are above us whores

So imagine a mirror
Bigger than the room it was placed in
Imagine my wish for a future that cannot hold my wish
Imagine the want to hold a rod that cannot hold the fish
Imagine a rod that cannot hold the fish

They could be lonely or could be bust
They could be tack, they could be real
They do have feelings, but just right now I feel

A feminine receptacle, that's just what I am
Those things are above us whores
Just the best target practice, for a misguided man
Those things are above us whores

So imagine a mirror
Bigger than the room it was placed in
Imagine my wish for a future that cannot hold my wish
Imagine the want to hold a rod that cannot hold the fish
Imagine a rod that cannot hold the fish

. . .



Eyes to take you dancing
mouth to leave your wife
Legs to run away with
and you wonder why?

Heart that makes you bypass
every other girl
Smile that keeps you grinning
at the madness of this world

But like the blackbird on the wire
I will not take the prey on you
You wouldn't want me to
For I am too soft for such a thing
And like the blackbird on the wire
I just watch you by
The tears I knew I'd cry
Fall unnoticed down below

Front to make you happy
back to make you weep
Lips to keep you kissing
whilst everyone's asleep

Tears to break a backbone
laughs to win a war
And people come and ask me
what I love you for

But like the blackbird on the wire
I will not take the prey on you
You wouldn't want me to
For I am too soft for such a thing
And like the blackbird on the wire
I just watch you by
The tears I knew I'd cry
Fall unnoticed down below

And with a tongue built from quicksilver
and a character of steel
They actually come and ask me
How I feel

But like the blackbird on the wire
I will not take the prey on you
You wouldn't want me to
For I am too soft for such a thing

And like the blackbird on the wire
I just watch you by
The tears I knew I'd cry
Fall unnoticed down below

. . .



Ginger Elvis Presley looked a fraction sad
Roaming the whole town from bin to bin
Well living on the streets wasn't all that bad
Where no-one seemed to know that he was King

The sound of New York City
isn't police sirens wailing
It's the sound of Wall Street tills
whilst everyone is failing

Sometimes you feel expensive
sometimes you feels so cheap
You can roam the streets a King
whilst everyone's asleep
You can mime to any record
with a hairbrush or a spoon
But God help the singer out of tune

A crippled Mohammad Ali
looked at bad luck in the mirror
Bad luck looked back at him and sighed
He looked a good foot smaller
and a couple of stone thinner
And if anyone came toward him
he would hide

The sound of North America
isn't Christians quietly praying
It's the sound of shuffling feet
that don't know where they're going

Sometimes you feel expensive
sometimes you feels so cheap
You can roam the streets a King
whilst everyone's asleep
You can fight with anybody
with a glimmer of a chance
But God help the boxer with no hands

A homeless Greta Garbo
moves across the street
The moonlight shining clearly
through her skirt
A real life living legend
that no-one wants to meet
And that's when being Garbo
really hurts

The lyrics of "New York"
may have Frank Sinatra singing
But the rhythm and the melody
were dead black men swinging

Sometimes you feel expensive
sometimes you feels so cheap
You can roam the streets a Queen
whilst everyone's asleep
You can act with anybody
from the cradle to the crypt
But God help the actress
who doesn't know the script

. . .



Have fun
And if you can't have fun
Have someone else's fun
'Cause someone sure had mine
They came in
now they're having a whale of a time

You should grow a beard
A beard to tell a thousand stories never told before
A beard to tell you tales, whilst the fireplace roars
The closing of relationships and the opening of doors
The starting of hostilities and the ending of wars

Take care
And if you couldn't care
Take someone else's care
'Cause someone took my care
They went there and then they were not there

We should have a baby
And then I wouldn't feel quite so sad
Then I'd feel like Paul the Saint and not Jack the Lad
A baby that'll make me feel so very glad
I've had a life of booze, but that's all I've ever had

'Cause I'm the King of Misery
The Prince of the torn apart
And you're the lighthouse keeper
To the owner of a ship-wrecked heart

Take heart
And if you can't take heart
Take someone else's heart
Someone took my heart
They came in, now I'm torn apart

We should grey together
Not that pigeon-chested Trafalgar grey
The grey that greets you on that first October day
The grey of Russian front, whilst wolves bay
And the skeleton of life that love decays

'Cause you're the Queen of Sadness
The Princess of the House of Pain
And you're the final match
To the holder of this flickering flame

Have fun

. . .



Well sitting in a bar alone
where no-one knows your name
is like laying in a graveyard
wide awake
You're scared that if you cough or yawn
you might wake up the dead
So pretend to read a paper
or just drink instead

I'm a stand-up comedian
but I'd sit down if I could
The world just seems
to want folk like me to stand
And the punch-lines seem to disappear
like clouds across the sky
And the laughter could be real
or could be canned

Rum by the kettle drum
Whiskey by the jar
At Liar's Bar

Well living with a lying man
could never really hurt
But living with a drunk
well no-one deserves
And you're looking for your husband
you're not sure he's still alive
Don't bother with the cemetery
he'll be down at liar's dive

I'm atravelling businessman
I just stopped in for one drink
You'll find
that I'm not like the other men
Their noses are red
whilst mine is only pink
And they didn't choose their drink
their drink chose them

Rum by the kettle drum
Whiskey by the jar
At Liar's Bar

And the grave-digger's smiling
at his reflection in his spade
He's visiting the seediest
the shallowest of graves

The vocal chords of elephants
and the characters of mice
They're singing "whisky, whisky"
so good they named it twice

Well don't pass buildings with lights on
if I said that I did I'd have lied
'Cause what looks like a Chinese reastaurant
may have Chinese New Year inside
And son all my life I've been searching
the bars I've been in I forget
The lights outside ever brighter
but a light on the inside not yet

Rum by the kettle drum
Whiskey by the jar
At Liar's Bar

And he's a world-wide traveller
he's not like me or you
But he comes in mighty regular
for one who's passing through
That one came in his work clothes
he's missed his last bus home
He's missed a hell of a lot of buses
for a man who wants to roam

If I look rough I am rough
If I look sad I am
If I look broke I am broke
Just a broke down piece of man

I've turned over enough leaves
to fill an autumn
and if I had one final wish
I'd be your slave for a decade
if you could take me away from this
If you took me away from this
I'd be different you'd see
'Cause I didn't choose the drink
a drink just chose me

Rum by the kettle drum
Whiskey by the jar
At Liar's Bar

Well I'm smoking like a chimney
And I'm drinking like a fish
At Liar's Bar

. . .



And the women tug their hair
Like they're trying to prove it won't fall out
And all the men are gargoyles
Dipped long in Irish stout

The whole place is pickled
The people are pickles for sure
And no-one knows if they've done more here
Than they ever would do in a jar

This could be Rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or Rome
'Cause Rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone
Anywhere alone

And everyone is blonde
And everyone is beautiful
and when blondes and beautiful are multiple
they become so dull and dutiful

And when faced with dull and dutiful
They fire red warning flares
Battle-Khaki personality
With red underwear

This could be Rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or Rome
'Cause Rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone
Anywhere alone

The whole place is pickled
The people are pickles for sure
And no-one knows if they've done more here
Than they ever would do in a jar

This could be Rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or Rome
'Cause Rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone

This could be Rotterdam or anywhere
Liverpool or Rome
'Cause Rotterdam is anywhere
Anywhere alone

. . .



Build your dream castle out of sand
It's bound to get washed up anyway
Dream your dreams out of last week
They're bound to have come up yesterday

If you want to give them flowers
Make them paper ones you send
Live your life a jigsaw
It goes back in the box, in the end
Build your dream heart from plasticine
'Cause you're putty in their hands
Mould your ambition in concrete
'Cause you'll only land in quicksand

Carve your dough from play-dough
'Cause they'll roll you into a ball
Make your friends from Lego
'Cause Lego makes a wall

'Cause when you build big houses
The paintings get stolen
The devil says he's silver
When you know that he is golden
When papier mâché heads make more sense
than the sun
Giving teacher apples could be fun or dumb

Build your planes from Airfix
'Cause you'll only lose the war
Write your love letters on rice paper
At least you'll feed the poor

Build your dream castle out of sand
It's bound to get washed up anyway
Dream your dreams out of last week
They're bound to have come up yesterday

. . .


(Harnick / Bock)

Alone in the world was poor little Anne
As sweet a young child as you'd find
Her parents had gone to their final reward
Leaving their baby behind

Did you hear this poor little child
was only nine years of age
When mother and dad went away
Still she bravely worked
at the one thing she knew
To earn a few pennies a day

She made artificial flowers, artificial flowers
Flowers for ladies of fashion to wear
She made artificial flowers, artificial flowers
Fashioned from Annie's despair

With papers and shears, with wire and wax
She made up each tulip and mum
As snow flakes drifted in to her tenement room
Her baby little fingers grew numb

From artificial flowers, those artificial flowers
Flowers for ladies of high fashion to wear
She made artificial flowers, artificial flowers
Made from Annie's despair

And they found little Annie all covered with ice
Still clutching her poor frozen shears
Amidst all the blossoms, she had fashioned by hand
And watered with all her young tears

There must be a Heaven where little Annie can play
In heavenly gardens and bowers
And instead of halo, she'll wear round her head
A garland of genuine flowers

No more artificial flowers, artificial flowers
Flowers for ladies of society to wear
Those artificial flowers, artificial flowers
Fashioned from Annie's
Fashioned from Annie's despair

. . .



Like the toupee on a fading fame
The final whistle in a losing game
Thick lipstick on a five year old girl
It makes you think it's a plastic world

A plastic world and we're all plastic too
Just a couple of different faces in a dead man's queue
The world is turning Disney and there's nothing you can do
You're trying to walk like giants
but you're wearing Pluto's shoes

And the answers fall easier from the barrel of a gun
Than it does from the lips of the beautiful and the dumb
The world won't end in darkness, it'll end in family fun
With Coca Cola clouds behind a Big Mac sun

A howling scream in a church asleep
Rusty bicycle in an ocean deep
Like an ear-ring on the newly born
Strong perfume on a winter's morn

The world is perfumed and we're perfumed as well
Petals from a flower that blossomed in hell
And you can't breathe the air through the thickness of the smell
And you can't see the hair through the grease of the gel

And the answers fall easier from the barrel of a gun
Than it does from the lips of the beautiful and the dumb
The world won't end in darkness, it'll end in family fun
With Coca Cola clouds behind a Big Mac sun

You say there's only one God, you could do with two or three
Your Jesus Christ is hired out, like the slag of Galilee
Well if Peter is a prostitute, then what does that make me

There's only one God
There should be two or three
One God
There should be two or three
One God
There should be two or three
Two or three

. . .



Like the contents of your handbag
You don't know why it's there
People ask you where you're heading
You just answer "anywhere"

We don't mean to be this vague
It just happens that we are
No-one asked us to elaborate
We just shrug our shoulders and be

And like the stories that just happened
No-one thought of, no-one planned
We could have ruled, we could have conquered
Then we could have been a man

We could be ex-husband
We could be ex-wife
But no-one looks at the menu in a greasy spoon life

Alone, alone
Half an hour is seven hours
One day is several months
Alone, alone
A month is a calendar
A year can be a decade spent
Alone

He knows "hello" in eighteen languages
"I love you" in only one
By the time he's got his phrase-book
The chance is usually gone

And we feel ourselves quite prepared
But quite prepared for what
We always took the lead
Before we actually knew the plot

And you can tell where we've been shopping
By the bags beneath our eyes
Make-up shoulders burden
But the smile never lies

We could be ex-husband
We could be ex-wife
But no-one looks at the menu in a greasy spoon life

Alone, alone
Half an hour is seven hours
One day is several months
Alone, alone
A month is a calendar
A year can be a decade spent
Alone

So empty at the airport
You don't set off the doors
We used to feel like chorus girls
And now we feel like whores

Hearts built like reservoirs
Words built like dams
Thoughts built like juggernauts
Our actions built like prams

And when the wind blows into our face
We should be warmer and not colder
Well, what price the charges
On this cargo that we shoulder

We could be ex-husband
We could be ex-wife
But no-one looks at the menu in a greasy spoon life

Alone, alone
Half an hour is seven hours
One day is several months
Alone, alone
A month is a calendar
A year can be a decade spent
Alone

And we only smoke when bored
So we do two packs a day
And we've lost the difference
Between bored and lonely anyway

. . .



With a minute's silence for the dead
And a minute's silence for the long-lost lovers
No one's really in the mood for beer

With a minute's silence for the child
And a minute's silence for the grieving mothers
There's not much talking going down here

With a minute's silence for the girl
With a minute's silence for the younger brother
Things have never been so clear

With a minute's silence for your friend
With a minute's silence for your long-lost folk
A minute's silence lasts a year

A minute's silence seems a year

And the park is filled with pain
For this age has laid its claim
And the street's about to cry
Cos it longs for passers-by
It longs for passers-by

. . .



You request pollard and you get pollard
You ask for pollard and you get pollard
You plead for pollard and you get pollard
You get down for pollard and you get pollard
You get down for pollard and you get pollard
You get down on your knees for pollard
And you get pollard
You get down on your knees and you get pollard

Cos you request pollard when you get pollard
And you ask for pollard and you get pollard
You plead for pollard and you get pollard
You get down for pollard and you get pollard
You get down for pollard and you get pollard
You get down on your knees for pollard
You get down on your knees for pollard
And you get pollard

. . .


(B. Holiday / A. Herzog)

Those that's got shall get
Those that's not shall lose
So the bible said and it still is true

Mama may have
Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own

Well the strong seem to get more
While the weak ones fade
Empty pockets don't ever make the grade

Mama may have
Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own

And when you got money
You got lots of friends
Crawling round your door
When the money's gone
And all your spending ends
They won't be around no more

Rich relations may give you
A crust of bread and such
You can help yourself but don't take too much

'Cos Mama may have
Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own

When you got money
You got lots of friends
Crawling round your door
When the money's gone
And all your spending ends
They won't be around no more

Rich relations may give you
A crust of bread and such
You can help yourself but don't take too much

Mama may have
Papa may have
But God bless the child who can turn round and say
I've got my own

. . .


(H. Nilsson)

I spend the night in a chair
Thinking she'll be there but she never comes
I wake up and wipe the sleep from my eyes
Then I rise to spend another day without her
It's just no good anymore
When you walk through the door of an empty room
You go inside and set a table for one
It's no fun when you have to spend a day without her

He burst a pretty balloon
Took it to the moon
It was such a beautiful thing
But it's ended now and it sounds like a lie

I said I'd rather die that be without her

Love is such a beautiful thing
When it knows how to swing
And it grooves like a clock
But the hands on the clock tell the lovers to part
And it's breaking my heart to spend another day without her

I spend the night in a chair
Thinking she'll be there but she never comes
I wake up and wipe the sleep from my eyes
Then I rise to spend another day without her

Can't go on without her
There's no song without her

. . .



It doesn't take a mathematician
To add a simple sum
Either you are simply beautiful
Or I am simply dumb

Dumb, dumb, dumb

it doesn't take Robert the Bruce
To see the web you've spun
Either you are simply beautiful
Or I am simply dumb

Dumb, dumb, dumb

It doesn't take a labrador
To show a blind man sun
Either you are simply beautiful
Or I am simply dumb

Dumb, dumb, dumb

The sun, the sky, the moon, the stars
Jupiter, Neptune and Mars
All these things I clearly see
It don't take a telescope for you to love me

Dumb, dumb, dumb

. . .



The opening of a new book
A singular wave crashing
The opening of a new book
Sat on your chuff knowing nothing
The opening of a new book
A ticket on a train from nowhere to somewhere
The opening of a new book
Are you Elephant Man or George Michael?
The opening of a new book
A sip, a swig, a gulp, a mouthful, a session, a bender, a life
The opening of a new book
Does this personality have any brakes?
The opening of a new book
Does anyone know who oils the brakes?
Are you supposed to oil them yourself?

Can you whisky? Can you gin?
Can you speed without brakes?
Are you cancelled? Are you taken?

Can you whisky? Can you gin?
Can you speed without brakes?
Can anyone repair me?

Can you whisky? Can you gin?
Can you speed without brakes?
Are you cancelled? Are you taken in?

Can you whisky? Can you gin?
Can you speed without brakes?
Can anyone repair me?

. . .


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