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Guts - Live, Zeche Bochum 06.03.1983

de John Cale

The bugger in the short sleeves f**ked my wife
Did it quick and split
Back home, fresh as a daisy to maisy, oh maisy

And the twelve-bore it stood in the corner
Quite operatic in it’s self disgust
It blew him all over the living room floor
Like parrot shit, parrot spit, parrot shit was shot

Now suppose it was someone familiar
Someone we all would know
Embarrasing denouement, ne c’est pas?
Familiar hyperbole

And there would go the secret plot
The piss had missed the hole in the pot
Like that ancient teenage dream
From soul to poison soul to poison soul

Guts, guts, got no guts
And stitches don’t help at all
Guts, guts, got no guts
Holes in the body, holes in the legs
Holes in the forehead, holes in the head
Holes in the body, holes in the legs
There should never be holes at all
There should never be holes at all

So: kill all you want or more
Make sure, do it right
Dead is dead, and door nails forget
And then you’ll notice
How the waster and the wasted
Get to look like one another
In the end, in the end
In the end, in the end
In the end, in the end

In the end, in the end

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