Testo The race is about to begin Black Midi

The race is about to begin

Idiots are infinite
And thinking men are numbered
Don’t kid yourself
This isn’t news

Let’s start with Tristan Bongo, alone in the race
Conscription calling his name
One more night of freedom
An heiress high up atop the stands

And the lines are open
That’s Lucky Star, Eye Sore, Doctor Murphy, Sun Tzu, The Clap, Mr. Winner, Spot, Wallace, Mrs. Gonorrhoea, Perfect P, Deadman Walking, and The Company Favourite
A son hands dad’s hard earned cash to the clerk
And she laughs at the gall of the small guido lips
“Put it all on Spot, the kid’s already won”
John Tyl?r smeared with last nights beer
Refl?ct vomiting Chris who dreams his dream is near
In the form of Mrs. Gonorrhea
Reporter reporting the state of affairs
Inwardly asks of his prime time hair
Why it can’t quite rival the manes on these mares
The smoothness can’t compare
The gleaming appliances attract attention
The raffle prizes too many to mention
Displayed all over the stadium entrance

Hypodermic needles
Hidden under a coat sleeves
Of sweaty wise-guy money earning men
In search of the horse to apprehend

The race is about to begin
The race is about to begin

Blondie locked in 4 Eyes’ arms
Squirming like a dying fish
That’s the last I can recall

The race was ran
Someone lost, someone won
I came and I stayed and the same ever since
Outside
The freaks of the wilderness, open in spring
The time before time was the time to sing
Unidentified song surging through the brush
Transcription futile, let alone the rush
You miss when hunched and scribbling notes
Here no journalism is ever in vogue
Despite the attempts of doctors and saints
None have recorded its heavenly grace
But I stayed, and stayed, and stayed
That race was ran thirty years back
And each day since the same
Peel back the witness of a million catastrophes
To see the spotty remnants each has left
I forget in which cups I’ve pissed
From which I can still drink
Tonight it’s so cold my feet are shrinking
Groping around for the sides of my boot
It’s no night for the blind
With all these sirens I envy the deaf mutes
Some killer on the loose again
Some idiot at large
Some Chinese moose again
An excuse for the sarge
No sirens all silent
The log cabin's silent
No killer either
No creeks in the floor
Log cabin, what cabin?
A shack’s all I have
Yes, my cubbyhole’s stuffed with skeletons
But my neighbours are stuffed with anthrax
Where does that leave us?
I came thirty years back
From Salafessien, via South Schlagenheim
To Sunterum and Sunterime
The late Sun Sugar’s home town
Buried not far from here
My only friend
Neighbor, what neighbor?
My shack is all alone
This pen, changing lines
One line at a time
Blindness? What blindness? Sweet blindness
A little laughter, a little silence
A little magic, a little kindness
A little all over me, yes me
The first, the last, the everything
No trace of anything
No sin, no life, no fun, no time, no any-fucking-thing
No one, no yes, no house, no shack, no A, no B, no C, no et cetera
No one, no two, no et cetera
No school, no life, no work, no time, no book, no art, no point, no truth, no use, no friend
No know, no knot, no hole, no birth, no end, no real, no fake
No king of this useless nameless non-land
No end to this nothing nonsense non-song
No day set for my saviors arrival, to carry me far
Across green waters, above the sky or below the depths
Among the white cloud or red steppe
Or to fly forever in-between ends
Or in-between in-betweens
Or in-between no-between
Or no nothing, no saviour, no journey, no end
A thousand years of no nothing hiding from nothing
No reason to hide sins or reason not to sin
No reason to pretend
No reason to pretend there is not no reason
Oh, yes
Blondie ran on the track
4 Eyes got stuck in the rail
The reporter was caught getting sweaty in the stable
Blondie gone, 4 Eyes gone, Guidos gone, Clerk gone, Chris gone
Tristan Bongo the man who never left
Tristan Bongo never left
Still here
I stayed
The clown can be a martyr
The whore can be an angel
The hack becomes a master
The crass becomes divine
The infinite, infinitesimal
And all sins irrepressible
No use digging holes to hide
The rupture comes and leaves no stone unturned
So don’t wish for anything
The clown can be a martyr
The whore can be an angel
The hack becomes a master
The crass becomes divine
The infinite, infinitesimal
All sins irrepressible