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Wire
Wire


Информация
Откуда London, England
Жанры Alternative Rock
Experimental Rock
Post-punk
Punk Rock
Годы 1976—н.в.
Лейблы Mute Records
Сайт Website
Состав
Colin Newman
Graham Lewis
Robert Gotobed
Matt Simms
Бывшие участники
Bruce Gilbert
Margaret Fiedler



Music World  →  Тексты песен  →  W  →  Wire  →  Дискография  →  154

Альбом Wire


154 (1979)
1979
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. . .


In an act of contrition
I lay down by your side
It's not your place to comment
On my state of distress
For this is for real
I've tears in my eyes
Am I laughing or crying?
I suggest I'm not lying

I haven't found a measure yet to
Calibrate my displeasure yet so

To ignore my warning
Could be your folly
The judgement is harsh
I offer no plea

Valuing the vengeance which you treasure
I've redefined the meaning of vendetta

The procession's disordered
You protect your possessions
In light of your actions
I question your love

May I make an observation
Your bite is worse than my aggression

I should have known better
I should have known better
Than to become a target
Albeit a target which moves

No offer of terms or concessions
For statements or confessions
You don't feel warm, I pass close by

You shiver, I whisper
Excuse me, what's your problem?
Oh, I see
I should have known better

. . .


Two people in a room
Facial movements betray
A private display
Of nervous disorder
And mutual torture

Two people in a room
Bloody image is conjured
But no one is injured
The weapons are chosen
But the action is frozen

Two people in a room
Positions are shifted
The ceasefire uplifted
The lighting is fierce
It's intended to pierce
Any cloak of deceit
And encourage retreat
And God they're so gifted
My God they're so gifted

. . .


Reviewed, it seemed
As if someone were watching over it
Before it was
As if response were based on fact

Providing, deciding, it was soon there
Squared to it, faced to it, it was not there

Renewed, it fought
As if it had a cause to live for
Denied, it learned
As if it had sooner been destroyed

Providing, deciding, it was soon there
Squared to it, faced to it, it was not there

Reviewed, it fought
As if someone were watching over it
Before it had sooner been denied
Renewed, it seemed
As if it had a cause to live for
Destroyed, it was later based on fact

. . .


He took his seat on the foreign train
He thought it pleasant to travel again
Mindful of the journey's end
He read again the letter from his friend

Time passed as it often does

The seat was hard, the carriage fetid
He was dressed for summer, but still he sweated
It was better than being home
Feeling the cold, and living alone

Time passed slowly

Around him people spoke in French
Despite schooldays it made no sense
Occasional stares caught his eye
He was tempted to smile, but

Being shy, time passed

When he looked through the window
For the thousandth time
He saw a black horse fighting for its life

In a barbed wire fence
Fatally tangled
The more it struggled
The more it was strangled

Time sped up

He turned away
What could he do?
The other window
Had a nicer view

Time passed painfully

. . .


I've found something
No one else is looking for
I've found something
That there's no use for

And what's more
I'm keeping it to myself

I'm leaning over backwards
Shoulders pressed to the floor
I'm leaning over backwards
Shoulders pressed to the door

Two falls or one submission
Or a single K.O.
Two falls or one submission
Or a single K.O.
But what's one submission
Amongst friends?

. . .


With all the front
And more besides
Bitch, thrust, and parry
And a few asides
With considerable charm
You chose not to decide

I really like you
Becomes my massage
I really want you
Becomes my message

But how long can we sustain
Ourselves apart?
The pressure's increasing it
Squeezes my heart

I bought a ticket
You took a walk
So much to say
We're unable to talk
Suffering in silence
Our eyes give it away
So close as we part
A touching display
Colouring my thoughts
Predominately grey and

Fighting bravely
Will she save me?
From what or who
I do not know

. . .


You'll be sorry when the sun has roasted you to
Lobster red, nothing said
When yellow has turned green to brown, divide by four
Multiply by nine, describe your divisions, anatomical derision

Lobster head and lobster feet
On arriving with a third language
Tucked into your briefcase, next to your toothbrush
Along with a copy of the Nouvelle Observateure

While your sons and daughters who registered nought
Under intensive electronic scanning
You regard your body with regard to events
Which with nothing planned

Never lacked a sense of theatre
On returning with the tan you've gained
A head of world service, the best of your culture
An evening of fun in the metropolis of your dream

. . .


As a mutual friend it was difficult to pretend
That I was anything less than concerned

Hearing of your troubles
Has forced me to double
My interest in your current affairs

It's no use despising a new unknown horizon
Now your son has set his sights on the moon

So precipitous a decision has clouded your vision
And altered the pitch of your tune

Please don't turn a deaf ear to the noises you hear
While savagely your love you prune
For he might replace the old with the moon
He might replace the old with the moon

In March, April, May, and June
July, August, September, soon
He might replace the old with the moon
It could be October
November, or even December
So in January and February, remember

He might replace the old with the moon
He might replace the old quite soon

. . .


Closing doors
Opens eyes
To the fatal gift
Of a well timed lie
Loved in the flesh
And (but) butchered in the mind
Oh what a pearl
What a well made world

Holy globe
Eternal home
Sacred sphere
So glad I'm here
Oh what a pearl
What a well made world

. . .


It's sinister

I'd attempt a casual structure
Preceding interaction
Symphonic in persuasion
Noblesse oblige

Each minister

Is just a drop compared with
Having double vision
It's desirable in part
Refuse the ruse

Deciding each devise
If you don't think twice
Once is enough, once is enough
Preparing its demise
It's something you'll devise
Once is enough, once is enough

In passing

You sprang a leak instead
You'd sooner see its piety
You'd replied in its course
Before you

Resume transmission

You retiring

I'll respond with curtained thought
A pause for intermission
My advice is simple

. . .


An unseen ruler defines with geometry
An unrulable expanse of geography
An aerial photographer over-exposed
To the cartologist's 2D images knows
The areas where the water flowed
So petrified, the landscape grows
Straining eyes try to understand
The works, incessantly in hand
The carving and paring of the land
The quarter square, the graph divides
Beneath the rule, a country hides

Interrupting my train of thought
Lines of longitude and latitude
Define and refine my altitude

The curtain's undrawn
Harness fitted, no escape
Common and peaceful, duck, flat, lowland
Landscape, canal, canard, water coloured

Crystal palaces for floral kings
A widespread waving span of wings
Witness the sinking of the sun
A deep breath of submission has begun

. . .


You gained respect as we passed
Not a wave, a gestured wink
I was forced to think
I couldn't ignore
I've seen you before

Joking aside, face to face
It's the one I cannot place
A hint might enlarge your imprint
I think I've had a taste of a savoury
Denial would be a waste

Lying prone
Hiding in a column, between SALE and ZDRK
Sky, sand, and moorland, shepherd's delight
But not in the sun
Which stops you from walking

I might find you
But I lack the patience
Passed a corner, you'd been stolen
Ate a meal, you'd been defaced

. . .


I never know which version I'm going to be
I seem to have so many choices open to me

It's not hard to see another unique event
When you miss the beginning and you miss the end

I've got forty versions all dying to get the part
And so with a change of mind comes a change of heart

A total eclipse arrives now and Niagara Falls
No loss of blood yet and no further calls

I never know which version I'm going to be
I get the feeling my mind is deceiving me

In between are where only edges can be seen of the spaces

. . .


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