Ayres

God Hates Me I heard of a man who got hit by a train He sat on the track and waited for pain He cried God can’t hurt me! He didn’t understand That the train was pushed by God’s vengeful hand. People these days I heard of a girl who sat in the rain Crying her heart out, praying for pain She cried God can’t help me! She didn’t know That Gods gonna make it rain wherever she goes People these days He was a family man who made no mistakes Until he took all he could feasibly take A man of sorrow who ignored the gospels And scribbles in the sand with his own hand People these days I sat in the park and smiled in vain I knew someone up there was plotting my pain I said Just come and get me I’m not a great believer in fate, me I just know God happens to hate me. People these days

English Gangsters George, the archetype, was out too long He’s gun jammed and then his head slammed Amongst the litter on the pavement He died as he lived With a craving for dangerous entertainment And now in this dingy basement We gather round the snooker table Discussing the way we’ve been labelled We’re not a cancer we won’t hurt you we are the English gangsters the end of tradition table filled with dubious larger men talking about how’s your father it’s been this way for years it started in the playground, giving kids the run-a-round blood for blood, and pound for pound and it ended in a car park our bite no match for our bark with tears around a chalk-mark we’re the end of tradition Kids with dreams to men with ambition We are the English gangsters No need for applause We could frighten with a stare Chase the racey women with lacey underwear Set the pulses racing and take what we need In a time of honour amongst fellow thieves We thrived and ti

Falsetto She’s being the queen with strappy stilettos and tiny handbag She’s strutting through my house like she owns it He’s breaking in like he knows what he means He’s talking to me like he thinks I’m listening They’re kissing like no one can see them They’re smiling like they’ve never been happier I’m despairing quietly by myself I’m crying into my hands You’re looking at me like you know what’s wrong You’re looking at me and bursting into song A high pitched voice Like everything else in this room Falsetto

Walking Under Ladders You’re luckier than some But you’ve lost your charm And that’s all that was keeping you sane And under the gun You pulled the alarm To stay ahead of the game So stop hiding from the black cats They’ll track you down some day And start walking under ladders Because karma makes you pay You’re luckier than some That horseshoe kept close to heart And you’re running away, almost too fast You’re having no fun So go back to the start And stop running from your past So lose that rabbit’s foot And four-leafed weed Start walking under ladders Stop making yourself bleed      

That Violin That violin’s been playing too long, That boring screechy mournful song, Those diamonds have lost their shine, You’ve lost yours and I’ve lost mine, That fire’s not quite burnt out, It’s all kept safely in your eyes. There’s sparkles all about That shimmer I despise Lies hidden and dies. That violin’s all drained of sound now, The player’s dead and in the ground now, No-one played at his wake, Reputation was at stake. That fire’s not quite burnt out, It’s all kept safely in those eyes, There’s money all about, That greed we all despise, Lies with him and dies. That violin lies unused on the corner of my street, Broken strings and broken heart misses every beat, That 50p I threw in his hat Every day and that was that. That fire’s not quite burnt out, It’s kept safely in those eyes, There’s regret all about, Feelings I despise, Remorse never dies.                        

Rubbing Fists   Looking through windows of happy homes Pain shooting through nerves and bones Your own home, windows grotesque No lights and no smiles A sadness seen seeping through tiles A sadness seen that lingers for miles Sisters punished and brothers admonished   No childhood without its terrors But a life of even more suffering Grows around you   Quarrel raging across the table A quarrel for the ages Your mothers face on the table Hidden by hands This is no party, this is no game The father rubs his fists on the tablecloth To hide the nervousness that exists   No childhood without its terrors Watching your father fall apart At the kitchen table   Mother with dry mouth, wrinkled neck Puffy hands, her domestic bliss wrecked Nearly collapsing where she stands As dreams turn into sand   Hide the nervousness that exists By rubbing your fists Monkey see and monkey do   No childhood without its terrors But a life o