Kate Bush - Before The Fall - Текст песни

He got her drunk very quickly: 

holding hands they found the broom cupboard 

where he had control as far as the fall, 

the rasping descent of her tights. 

When his hand covered wet hairs 

she took over among furniture wax, dust, 

the cloying yellow of polishing cloth. 

When he was sick 

she comforted him. 


He couldn't do it properly: the club, 

the office had left out details of delight. 

Satisfied, he would collapse out, 

puzzled at why she still squirmed, 

held on to him, tears curling into her mouth. 

This was something stories always omitted: 

that her joy would seem like pain 

when he focused after release. 


In the third week of the relationship 

she was tripping on organic acid, 

would stop, pick up a rained out leaf, 

would give it into his hand, 

full of dead things before they reached the car. 

When they drove she sat with mouth open 

as though photographed on the impact 

of a stomach punch, her right hand gripping 

the skin of his leg: he feared her, 

slapped out sideways into her face. 

She touched the cut with her tongue, 

gurgling gratitude for the strange taste. 


He stood looking through uncleaned windows, 

concentrated on the yellow of his car below. 

On the uncarpeted floor, with practice, 

she closed her eyes and drew on the cigarette. 

Twill jacket and polo-neck made him sweat, 

his nape skin red from a hair cut. 


Between two smokers she smiled up at him; 

as the weed approached he apologised 

suddenly wanting familiar territories: 

beer, to put his hand up her skirt. 

At the bottom of the limbed stairs 

he booted the cat, a drop kick in their twenty-five 

as he imagined her sylph laugh 

gathering chuckles around the room. 


There was no premonition of the wet Hog's Back, 

sports car slumped snout into a beach, 

their corpses giving the vehicle arms, 

petrol and blood at last dripping together 

but quick flashes of a planned lunch, 

cold red beef and a cherry wood fire, 

game pie and for him two pints of colder beer, 

the winter air tucking under their eye lids, 

spinning on the gravel at Clandon: 

the hand steaming from quick moisture, 

the aromatic finger drawn back into his nose. 

Dazed after mutual masturbation 

they slewed into a conservative end.