You get a shiver in the dark It's been raining in the park but meantime South of the river you stop and you hold everything A band is blowing Dixie double four time You feel all right when you hear that music ring You step inside but you don't see too many faces Coming in out of the rain to hear the jazz go down Too much competition too many other places But not too many horns can make that sound Way on downsouth way on downsouth London town You check out Guitar George he knows all the chords Mind he's strictly rhythm he doesn't want to make it cry or sing And an old guitar is all he can afford When he gets up under the lights to play his thing And Harry doesn't mind if he doesn't make the scene He's got a daytime job he's doing alright He can play honky tonk just like anything Saving it up for Friday night With the Sultans with the Sultans of Swing Amd a crowd of young boys they're fooling around in the corner Drunk and dressed in their best brown baggies and their platform soles They don't give a damn about any trumpet playing band It ain't what they call rock and roll And the Sultans played Creole And then the man he steps right up to the microphone And says at last just as the time bell rings 'Thank you goodnight now it's time to go home' and he makes it fast with one more thing 'We are the Sultans of Swing'
for me there are a million songs…….they tend to manifest mid conversation when someone says something…….unknowingly, its a line from a song…….and my mind says out loud the next line…….they look at me gon out….
"Night Moves" I was a little too tall Could've used a few pounds Tight pants points hardly reknown She was a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes And points all her own sitting way up high Way up firm and high Out past the cornfields where the woods got heavy Out in the back seat of my '60 Chevy Workin' on mysteries without any clues Workin' on our night moves Tryin' to make some front page drive-in news Workin' on our night moves In the summertime In the sweet summertime We weren't in love, oh no, far from it We weren't searchin' for some pie in the sky summit We were just young and restless and bored Livin' by the sword And we'd steal away every chance we could To the backroom, to the alley or the trusty woods I used her, she used me But neither one cared We were gettin' our share Workin' on our night moves Tryin' to lose the awkward teenage blues Workin' on our night moves And it was summertime And oh the wonder We felt the lightning And we waited on the thunder Waited on the thunder I awoke last night to the sound of thunder How far off I sat and wondered Started humming a song from 1962 Ain't it funny how the night moves When you just don't seem to have as much to lose Strange how the night moves With autumn closing in Bob Seger-Night Moves W Lyrics - YouTube
At last, a poetry thread on this forum! Unfortunately instead of real poetry it's just song lyrics, most of which are pretty feeble by the standards of real poetry. Oh well.
This is one of the great pluses about song lyrics. If you are in a band, there comes a time when you want to play some original material - to actually invent something. 9 times out of 10 (or more) you need something to sing, so you need some lyrics. You are forced to come up with something, no matter how lame. Few of us would attempt poetry, but song lyrics are something that many people will attempt, out of necessity. And far more people will hear it than would ever read your poetry. All in all, quite a democratic popular process. I'm all in favour of it.
Poetry for Pete euro communist/gucci socialist for a modern home and cheap electricity streamlined functional neat simplicity put yourself on the slum clearance list dial a dialectical materialist find out what your net potential is get married to an existentialist don't doubt your own identity dress down to a cool anonymity the pierre cardin line to infinity clothes to climb the meritocracy the new age of benevolent bureaucracy i like to visit all the big cities museums and municipal facilities i strive for critical ability i thrive on political activity i'm alive in a new society i arrive quickly quietly the car that i drive is the family variety roman catholic marxist leninist happily married to an eloquent feminist a lapsed atheist all my memories measure the multitude's deafening density psycho citizens are my enemies crypto nazis and their remedies keep the city silent as the cemetery's architechtural gothic immensity a new name on the less-than-kosher list the euro-communist / a gucci socialist
Hmmmm, more poetry. I must be someone else today............... part one... this disc concerns those those pouting prima-donnas found within the swelling j. arthur ranks of the sexational psycle sluts those nubile nihilists of the north circular the lean leonine leatherette lovelies of the leeds intersection luftwaffe angels locked in a pagan paradise no cash a passion for trash the tough madonna whose cro-magnon face and crab nebular curves haunt the highways of the UK, whose harsh credo captures the collective libido like lariats their lips pushed in a neon-arc of dodgems delightfully disciplined, dumb but deluxe deliciously deliciously deranged twin-wheeled existentialists steeped in the sterile excrements of a doomed democracy, whose post-nietzschean sensibilities reject the bovine gregariousness of a senile oligarchy whose god is below zero, whose hero is a dead boy condemned to drift like forgotten sputniks in the fool's orbit bound for a victim's future in the pleasure dromes and ersatz bodega bars of the free world the mechanics of love grind like organs of iron to a standstill hands behind your backs in a noxious gas of cheek to cheek totalitarianism hail the psycle sluts go go the gland gringos for the gonad a-go-go age of compulsory cunnilingusa part two... the dirty thirty the naughty forty the shifty fifty the filthy five zips, clips, whips and chains wait for you to arrive hell's angels by the busload stoned stupid, how they strut smoked woodbines till they're banjoed and smirk at the swedish smut life on the straight and narrow path drives you off your nut by day you are psycopath by night you're a psycle slut on a bsa with two bald tires you drove a million miles you cut your hair with rusty pliers and you suffer with the pillion piles you got built in obsolescence oh you got guts but you don't reach adolescence slow down psycle sluts motor cycle michael wants to buy a tank only twenty-nine years old and he's learning how to wank yesterday he was in the groove today he's in a rut my how the moments move brut fun psycle sluts he cacks on your originals he peepees on his boots he makes love like a footballer he dribbles before he shoots the goings on at the gang-bang ball made the citizen's tut-tut-tut but, what do you care, piss all you tell 'em psycle sluts now your boyfriend burned his jacket ticket expired tyres are knackered knackers are tired you can tell your tale to the gutter press get paid to peddle smut now you've ridden the road of excess that leads to the psycle sluts or you can dine and whine on stuff that's bound to give you boils hot dogs direct from cruft's done in diesel oil or the burger joint around the bend where the meals thank christ are skimpy for you that's how the world could end not with a bang but a wimpy.
and one being myself Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end. Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend. You give me the horrors too bad to be true All of my tomorrow’s are lousy coz of you. You put the Shat in Shatter Put the Pain in Spain Your germs are splattered about Your face is just a stain You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag. Do us all a favour, here... wear this polythene bag. You’re like a dose of scabies, I’ve got you under my skin. You make life a fairy tale... Grimm! People mention murder, the moment you arrive. I’d consider killing you if I thought you were alive. You’ve got this slippery quality, it makes me think of phlegm, and a dual personality I hate both of them. Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay. Please, please, please, please, take yourself away. Like a death a birthday party, you ruin all the fun. Like a sucked and spat our smartie, you’re no use to anyone. Like the shadow of the guillotine on a dead consumptive’s face. Speaking as an outsider, what do you think of the human race You went to a progressive psychiatrist. He recommended suicide... before scratching your bad name off his list, and pointing the way outside. You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart. You’re heading for a breakdown, better pull yourself apart. Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss. Your attitudes are platitudes, just make me wanna piss. What kind of creature bore you Was is some kind of bat They can’t find a good word for you, but I can... TWAT.
and one that make me smile does Superman wear blue tights and keep away from kryptonite do old ladies get mugged at night are you the business Do workers want a living wage do rock stars lie about their age would a tiger run from an open cage are you the business are you the fuck off business is my first name John is strangeways full of prisoners am I over twenty-one are the royal family really rich is scooby-do one son-of-a bitch is wembley stadium a football pitch are you the business did Noriega knock out coke did Bob Marley like the odd smoke was Jesus Christ a decent bloke are you the business does Oliver Reed ever get pissed can Chubby Checker do the twist was Karl Marx a communist are you the business was James Dean a cool cat was Kennedy a democrat do Hacedic men wear hats are you the business will narcotics get you hooked did Dostoyevsky write the odd book was Al Capone a bit of a crook are you the business did Buddy Holly wear horn-rimmed specs is czechoslovakia full of czechs did Sigmund Freud consider sex are you the business did Elvis ever rock 'n roll did James Brown have any soul will I touch you with a ten-foot barge pole are you the business
You can't beat John Cooper Clarke. I think Beasley St is my fav: " People turn to poison quick as lager turns to piss".
"and just when I thought it wasn't that bad, Wild Willy Barrett turned up on a cloud. I said 'I need this like a hole in the head'. God said 'that's what you got, and that's why you're dead' "... John Otway...
Another turning pointA fork stuck in the roadTime grabs you by the wristDirects you where to goSo make the best of this testAnd don't ask whyIt's not a questionBut a lesson learned in timeIt's something unpredictableBut in the end is rightI hope you had the time of your lifeSo take the photographsAnd still frames in your mindHang it on a shelf inGood health and good timeTattoos of memoriesAnd dead skin on trialFor what it's worthIt was worth all the whileIt's something unpredictableBut in the end is rightI hope you had the time of your lifeIt's something unpredictableBut in the end is rightI hope you had the time of your lifeIt's something unpredictableBut in the end is rightI hope you had the time of your life
We used to say, That come the day, When we'd all be making songs, Or finding better words, These ideas never lasted long... The way is up, Along the road, The air is growing thin, Too many friends who tried, Were blown off this mountain with the wind... Meet on the ledge, We're gonna meet on the ledge, When your time is up you're gonna meet all your friends, Meet on the ledge, We're gonna meet on the ledge, If you really mean it, it all comes round again... So here I sit, I'm all alone, But that's the only way to be, You'll have your chance again, Then you can do the work for me... Meet on the ledge, We're gonna meet on the ledge, When your time is up you're gonna meet all your friends, Meet on the ledge, We're gonna meet on the ledge, If you really mean it, it all comes round again...
