i was that girl from alabama. denied the basics so you could have her. i was the spanish, the belgian, killing my brothers. i was in israel, seeing those brothers. i was american, forgetting those sisters. i was that man in alabama. denying the girl the basics so i could have her. treating her worse so i could have her. keeping her worse so men could have her. telling her worse so tv could haver her. hitting her worse so courts could have her. i was the portuguese, selling brunoise. i was the english, selling those brothers.

i was that girl from alabama

dying clay pen, slaved yellow streets, where I often let myself sleep.
sounds from the motorway, sounds like the slave trade.

move country, don't eat for three days, freeze on your own watch. own your own life, don't throw it out. it's not an ex-lover. you can fail at what you don't love. move country, don't be your father. be broken, be homeless. don't be a character, a script, a book. don't need anything. fear love. know life. know your life. know your ex-wife. **** butterflies and wear your dead dads coat. know pain. but you'll learn that soon enough. move again. don't eat for three more days. learn about the slave trade. climb a train and sleep on oranges. find a home and go there. then ruin it. you can take shortcuts but your father will judge you. don't listen to the *******. he'll die before you. sing about credit ratings. write about herbalism. take on the spanish and dream about portugal. think about moving.

clinch my fists, like the coward i am. there's men in the hallway, and there's g-d in the living room, shining his throne. making war on love and killing butterflies, so he has something to write about. make love to the men, siting in his throne, so they'll show me the door. make rejection to war, your pastime. make love to rejection, like the old ******* you are. make war to love, whilst g-ds are running.
clinch my fists, like the coward i am. there's women in the hallway, who'd make love to me

woman with a fold away bike, a fold away life, a stolen orange book. a throw-away hat, a collapsing body. woman with a fold away bike, a mans love, some old muddy boots. a fold away wedding, a tired accent. woman with a fold away bike, kindly sleeps over, mothers children. raise a little cain, a dead father. woman with a fold away bike

i am fortunately english my dear, so i won't be going anywhere soon.
i won't be getting off this train because i've got no stops to make. all the culture comes to me and the culture is on demand. like some guy on the high street playing some pan pipes. and he's probably playing, just so he can afford to eat and he's probably not even peruvian but I can't tell by looking at him. you know we all like something odd and we all like something foreign, and as long as they don't take our jobs, we can just laugh at them.  you know, everyone I'm stood with, wants to send him back home, but don't you think he'd be at home, if he could. i see whats in my pockets and I feel sorry for myself. It doesn't matter if i'm speaking out of tune, no one hears in the first place. and forgive me for being blunt but it's the only way i can get through. but if we need some more poetry. look at the peruvian guy. he's wearing feathers, he's wearing blue. there's some white and red. the way he's stood. and that wireless microphone.
i am unfortunately english, my dear