sacred cough bottle

in the bowels of old georgian houses

bodies are wrapped in routine

peeling the weekly allowance

while billie holiday whispers in the corner

using one another as canvases

happily absorbing every single brush stroke

subterranean skin pressed on subterranean skin

while billie holiday whispers in the corner

what could beat it for a life?

seldom-seen creatures of comfort

are leaning toward the light

and the heirs are returning from their fruitless flight

dublin mumbles in the morning

yeah

well

she buckles in the night

out there in the middle distance

some old woman is claiming

to be the last living suffragette

speaking in a nebulized voice

while she picks and she plucks a busted violin

oh

by a stained glass window

wearing nothing nothing nothing

but trousers of bottle-green tweed

a young mesmeric who's just lost his marbles

in a haze of hashish and chamomile tea

into his gob

a cigarette is lobbed

forsake sickness for ill health

stick a few pound in an irish independent

send it to me by post

my friend

what could beat it for a life?

seldom-seen creatures of comfort

are leaning toward the light

dublin mumbles in the morning

yeah

well

she buckles in the night

i hear the meaning of life has been written down

on the back of a holy picture

in a boxing club in town

some say the men of the ocean

as they lie and they lie and they lie

and they lie amongst the waves

i will act as mediator

for this score and tree

while they compose their manifesto

read my kitchen table over cups of tar-like tea

what could beat it for a life?

seldom-seen creatures of comfort

are moving toward the light

and the heirs are returning from their fruitless flight

dublin mumbles in the morning

yeah

well

she buckles in the night

dublin mumbles in the morning

yeah

well

she buckles in the night