Written by Alex Robson
From Calais to Metz,
Berlin to Cologne,
We could go to Père Lachaise
And visit the Priest, the Poet, or the Soldier, unknown.
Yet vast sorrow-filled seas do alter our minds,
And endless cigarettes, sunken ashtrays,
Heavy with the salty pewter that fumigates our minds,
Clouding our every judgement,
Turning our desires sour, our tongues yellow;
Beseech me from this sorrowful employment of your love,
Yet keep me in your jar, for a harsh winter's day.
Je n'en connais pas la fin, you used to say,
But even that was a lie,
Bright eyes, full of lies, all the lies, so many lies-
Cotton-mouth jargon, so solemn in its creation,
Falls loosely on these sombre ears.
Arbitrary in the way you spoke,
In the way you may have prevented my progression,
From rosebud to soil, my mind wanes and my memory fleets,
Such wretchedness does fill the shrouded guise;
Carries the haunted soil which falls over me,
Unearth it now,
Now, so that I may see the farm,
Back to the farm-
Rife stench of hope, your manky dog,
Rags and feathers from charity shelves shield your lost desire,
To the farm we go,
"We ought to go back",
Back to the rows of fields, the old house, dirty cuffed jeans,
A television we so vacantly stare at,
With your sheep-shit covered shoe soles,
From the loose paths you tread so easily,
Through tall flowers that brush against your forearms,
Pretending this is a movie,
"Is this a movie?",
"What are we talking about?"
I don't care.
Forget Paris, let's stay at the farm,
L’homme est une petite idée-
I am tired of your gaze, it bores me.
Your meaningless idiosyncrasies are lost on me,
I want to go home,
I told you I wanted to go to Rome,
"Let's just go somewhere nice",
Whatever that meant.