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| Brian Eno Here Come The Warm Jets Dead Finks Don't Talk Oh cheeky cheeky Oh naughty sneeky You're so perceptive and i wonder how you knew. But these finks don't walk too well A bad sense of direction And so they stumble round in threes Such a strange collection. Oh you headless chicken Can those poor teeth take so much kicking? You're always so charming As you peck your way up there. And these finks don't dress too well No discrimination To be a zombie all the time Requires such dedication. Oh please, sir will you let it go by 'cos i failed both tests with my legs both tied In my place the stuff is all there I've been ever so sad for a very long time My my they wanted the works can you this and that I never got a letter back More fool me bless my soul More fool me bless my soul. Oh perfect masters They thrive on disasters They all look so harmless Till they find there way up there. But dead finks don't talk too well They've got a shaky sense of diction It's not so much a living hell It's just a dying fiction. |
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