MUSIC - AND IT WAS HELL... - YUTAKA

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Evoke (awaken mental images acceptable in girl) (03:48)
Qualm (06:02)
Pan (04:37)
Wednesday (05:30)
Amber (03:55)
Roquefort (03:21)
Yutaka (05:25)
Cusp (05:22)
Blah blah magazines (bonus track) (02:02)


Yutaka
(Spilker/van Reenen)
download mp3 (12.720 kB)
file includes lyric (embedded ID3v2 synchronized)
Grey in the morning a squad car pulls up
To what's the door of free France to the free Batavia
Oh, free Batavia
And you, Yutaka, you hold the tip of the barrel
Close to the varicose bourgeois veins
Yeah, you, Yutaka, you beat the drum of chaos
With the samurai Stolz-in-death
And these poor people are not that poor after all
Your suicide attempts are on their count
And you are smothered in their oil
And nothin' keeps you from setting it ablaze
But it's the purple haze behind your eyes
That fills you up with lies, like
I would not be proof to pull the trigger on you,
but mate, I'd shoot you right between the eyes
Because to me you are the antichrist
to all that I hold true
And though we seem to have the same ideals
I couldn't mate with you
You are the antichrist
to all that I hold true
And though we seem to have the same ideals
I couldn't mate with you
You are the antiforce
to all that I hold true
And though we seem to have the same ideals
I couldn't mate with you

Solo

"Can you tell me apart from the other four
Can you believe these four guys behind me
are breakin' out in a war?", she said
And I believed her
She was a bruise, big, blue, black
Carrie in a burnt-out car
Carry her home if you will
My mind ran to standstill
She's as old as Adam's apple,
lurking Edeanesque
in the shade of its tree I'd like to hit us with
't Would be grotesque
Please, my Lord, set us free
You never told me I had to believe to be
Running out on running out of speed
And greed, for to make dollars with
And creed, for to make dollars with
A dollar's width is just as wide as you
You're gross, mate
Get away, dogman posse
You your dog and me my rock 'n' roll pose
But get these muts away from me,
you can't conceive of how I hate
those whoreful heelsnaps thrashing kneecaps
Sprightly spuming earth in murder -chaps
In khaki all that's good goes flaky
And that's how they came to
Shoot the chocolate flake down from my cone
Then bore a hole through this here broad
She bears no grudge, she's as live as sludge
And there is no trace of who she was -
She has no face
She's skinless, and kinless
All them is dead.