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Cure - Desperate Journalist - текст песни

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Desperate Journalist

  • текст

Hey mister a review 
A word for salad 
Is written by my friend 
In penman 

He uses long words 
Like semiotics and semolina 
But I counted 
Enigma and metropolis 

The lads go rampant on insignificant symbolism 
And compound this with rude soulless obliqueness 

Everything's coming to a grinding halt 
I use such long words 

It's all clever stuff 
All this charming childish fiddling about aims for the anti-image 
But it naturally creates the perfectly malleable image 

Tantalizing enigma 
Of the Cure 
They try to take 

But the Cure really 
They're just trying to sell us something 
Their product is more artificial than most 
This is perhaps part of their 
But it seems more like their naivity 

Everything's coming to a grinding halt 
Everything's coming to a grinding halt 
Everything's coming to a grinding halt 

Note how really songs what are made of (?) 
Murk and marshes 
Tawdry images 
Inane realisations 
Dull dull dull epigrams 
Sometimes they sound like an avant-garde John Otway 
Or an ugly spirit 

Toy drumming 
Sprightly bass 
Limited guitar riff 

Check the sheet out of my favorite book 

People don't forget the penman 
It's just that in 1979 people shouldn't be allowed to get away with things like this 

I say.   

Привет, гитарист!

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