1. |
Butcher Boy
05:10
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It's like you're caught in a fever
Holding that cleaver
Little butcher boy
And they're up to their necks
but is that respect
Little butcher boy
Say it's coming up roses
Coming up sweet
But I bet they'd tell you anything
With you forcing the issue
Tying them up tight
Little butcher boy
Miss Alice has dimples
And perfect white skin
She smiles when you let her
But that smile turns to laughter
As you bare your soul
White turns red
And she has to go
It's all coming roses
Spring'll be here soon
As you work you hum a tune
Some kind of fever
Holding your tools
Little butcher boy.
These bitter little pills they try to make you take
Have opened up doors and helped you escape
These bloody little cubes you're forcing down that drain
Won't help you escape from the law again
They scream who you are
And what you are
Little butcher boy
Oh the looks you'll get
When they figure you out
The hearts you'll break
When they figure you out
The holes they'll dig
When they figure you out
And the knives they'll sharpen
When they figure you out
And the words they'll spit
The shit they'll fling
When they figure you out
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2. |
Ashes
06:15
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I put on my headphones and dial them in
The other side is hiding behind this crackle and hiss
Turn the gain up on the most sensitive of microphones
And you'll hear them
I sweep through the ether listening in
The whispering of voices at random frequencies
Scribble down what they say to me and no-one else
I can hear them
I can hear them
The bandstand where we met
The bench where we first kissed
I jump the frequencies but never hear your voice
Night after night you're never there never there
They left me hear with ashes, just ashes
They left me without you
To listen in to things I shouldn't hear
I am becoming translucent radio waves
I sit on this park bench, invisible
And all around the living dash about their daily goals
Can you see me?
The bandstand where we met
The bench where we first kissed
I jump the frequencies but never hear your voice
Night after night you're never there never there
They left me hear with ashes, just ashes
They left me without you
To listen in to things I shouldn't hear
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3. |
August and Whiteface
04:53
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August and Whiteface both took a bow
Fled to the caravan out back
As the audience roared their applause
They stuffed the corpse into a sack
August and Whiteface took a wrong turn
And met the gendarme on the road
They dropped the corpse
Turned and they fled
But the black clad police hunt them down
If we take off our make up they won't know us at all
Let them swing, let them swing
Come haul the rope up
Let them swing, let them swing
They've earned this fate
Let them swing, let them swing
Stretch their necks out
Without their greasepaint they're nobodies
Without their greasepaint they're nobodies
August and Whiteface escaped before dawn
Cut the ropes around their wrists
Distracted guards, two broken necks
And they fled into the mist
If we take off our make up they won't know us at all
Let them swing, let them swing
Come haul the rope up
Let them swing, let them swing
They've earned this fate
Let them swing, let them swing
Stretch their necks out
Without their greasepaint they're nobodies
Without their greasepaint they're nobodies
Let them swing, let them swing
If we take off our make up they won't know us at all
Let them swing, let them swing
Come haul the rope up
Let them swing, let them swing
They've earned this fate
Let them swing, let them swing
Stretch their necks out
Without their greasepaint they're nobodies
Without their greasepaint they're nobodies
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4. |
And the Voices Sang
05:55
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There's nothing worse than silence
Where are you hiding?
The faintest crackle starts
Then quiet, nothing
These idle, idle, idle hands
Miss their tasks and miss their tools
And miss the noises
Is it getting colder, darker, stranger?
Check the power again and again
Still plenty
These absent, absent, absent friends
Shouldn't judge and tut and think they're so superior
Maybe I should turn the light off and move on
There's nothing worse than regret love
Why are you hiding
There's no red in white noise
Somewhere, somewhere
You sweetly, sweetly, sweetly sing
So I can sleep and forget and be forgiven
Maybe I should turn the light off and move on
Maybe I should remember
They light ends
The sun goes down
She's not coming back, not coming back
And all I've done is paint things black
She was yellow
she was light
And this is night
This is silence.
And the voices sang and the voices sang
From my spirit box.
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Tom Slatter London
A latter-day Victorian street-theatre barker with a guitar promising tales of mystery, imagination, ‘orrible murders and bloody great waving tentacles’ is how Tom Slatter has been described. Since 2010 he has been scaring audiences with six albums and numerous EPs of storytelling songs. ... more
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