| This part of town is all flatfish tramps
|
| Beautiful women becoming mothers
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| All night long the piano grins
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| And I sit drinking sweetheart stout
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| Hey lonely you, you with the negro face
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| Say lonely what time does the music start?
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| Suddenly the actress belly laughs
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| And I put my hand on hers
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| Islington John, time you were gone
|
| Look at the clock, it’s a quarter to one
|
| And when it strikes the hour
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| I will steal your poppy flower
|
| I get a nosebleed under the blue lamp
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| The actress goes up to the ugly man and they kiss
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| The wind ruffles the polythene
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| On a woman drunk on powdered milk and gas
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| Me and the actress meet a crowd walking backwards
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| Football fans attacking gypsy caravans
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| Someone hits my head from the back
|
| As I’m peeping at cookery down an extractor stack
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| Islington John, time you were gone
|
| Look at the clock, it’s a quarter to one
|
| And when it strikes the hour
|
| I will steal your poppy flower
|
| Cars beep as we flamenco dance on the pavement
|
| The innards of an old alsatian preserved by frost
|
| Back at her flat the actress gargles
|
| And puts on a record by Juliette Greco
|
| Islington John, time you were gone
|
| Look at the clock, it’s a quarter to one
|
| And when it strikes the hour
|
| I will steal your poppy flower
|
| Islington John lifted the nylon
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| Lay amongst the broken antiques and smiled
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| Reeking of coffee and piss
|
| Sober enough just to say this:
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| «I will pay for the fire extinguisher
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| The sand bucket and case
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| If you will let me pay for this man’s face»
|
| Islington John, time you were gone
|
| Look at the clock, it’s a quarter to one
|
| And when it strikes the hour
|
| I will steal your poppy flower
|
| I will steal your poppy flower
|
| I will steal your poppy flower |