Tuesday 28 April 2015

soap factory

i play bass in a band,
we practice in the place
where my dad's dad lost his hand.

it's great working here,
you stay late and you get
free pizza and beer.

as i told her this,
she rolled her eyes and said

"is this some kind of sick joke?
we get paid more than that
working in a mexican sweatshop"

here they come, the super groups,
everybody always says they're good
at what they do and between black
walls of marshall stacks the drummer asks:

"SHOULD WE PLAY
IN BUSH AND BLAIR MASKS?
IT'D BE THE BEST"

i went through the north and the west and nobody gave a damn.

and the asbestos halls just laughed.

i always dreamt of peeling the lids of off tin sheds,
holding companies folding, moaning low in pomona...
in clippers quay, in merchants quays, in exchange quay..

where rows of condemned souls - unfit for purpose -
are all lined up, waiting for their turn to be converted

and every click of the mouse
is enough to feed a shanty town yeah.

soap factory, soap factory...

and if you ever stop to miss us,
just wish us back into existence.

soap factory, soap factory, soap factory.