closer than close - you see yourself -
a mirrored image - of what you wanted to be.
as each day goes by - a little more -
you can´t remember - what it was you wanted anyway.
the fingers feel the lines - they prod the space -
your aging face - the face that once was so beautiful,
is still there but unrecognizable -
private hell.
the man who you once loved - is bald and fat -
and seldom in - working late as usual.
your interest has waned - you feel the strain -
the bed springs snap - on the occasions he lies upon you -
close your eyes and think of nothing but -
private hell.
think of emma - wonder what she´s doing -
her husband terry - and your grandchildren.
think of edward - who´s still at college -
you send him letters - which he doesn´t acknowledge.
´cause he don´t care,
they don´t care.
´cause they´re all going through their own - private hell.
the morning slips away - in a valium haze -
and catalogues - and numerous cups of coffee.
in the afternoon - the weekly food -
is put in bags - as you float off down the high street.
the shop windows reflect - play a nameless host to a closet ghost
a picture of your fantasy - a victim of your misery and -
private hell.
alone at 6 o´clock - you drop a cup -
you see it smash - inside you crack -
you can´t go on - but you sweep it up -
safe at last inside your private hell.
sanity at last inside your private hell.
saturdays kids - paul weller
saturdays boys live life with insults,
drink lots of beer and wait for half time results,
afternoon tea in the lite-a-bite - chat up the girls - they dig it!
saturdays girls work in tesco´s and woolworths,
wear cheap perfume ´cause its all they can afford,
go to discos - they drink babycham - talk to jan - in bingo accents.
saturdays kids play one arm bandits,
they never win but that´s not the point is it?
dip in silver paper when their pints go flat,
how about that - far out!
their mums and dads smoke capstan non filters,
wallpaper lives ´cause they all die of cancer,
what goes on - what goes wrong.
save up their money for a holiday,
to selsey bill or bracklesham bay,
think about the future - when they´ll settle down,
marry the girl next door - with one on the way.
these are the real creatures that time has forgot,
not given a thought - its the system -
hate the system - what´s the system?
saturdays kids live in council houses,
wear v-necked shirts and baggy trousers,
drive cortinas - fur trimmed dash boards,
stains on the seats - in the back, of course!
the eton rifles - paul weller
sup up your beer and collect your fags,
there´s a row going on down near slough,
get out your mat and pray to the west,
i´ll get out mine and pray for myself.
thought you were smart when you took them on,
but you didn´t take a peep in their artillery room,
all that rugby puts hairs on your chest,
what chance have you got against a tie and a crest.
hello-hurray - what a nice day - for the eton rifles
hello-hurray - i hope rain stops play - with the eton rifles.
thought you were clever when you lit the fuse,
tore down the house of commons in your brand new shoes,
composed a revolutionary symphony,
then went to bed with a charming young thing.
hello-hurray - cheers then mate - its the eton rifles
hello-hurray - an extremist scrape - with the eton rifles.
what a catalyst you turned out to be,
loaded the guns then you run on home for your tea.
left me standing - like a guilty schoolboy.
we came out of it naturally the worst,
beaten and bloody and i was sick down my shirt,
we were no match for their untamed wit,
though some of the lads said they´ll be back next week.
hello-hurray - there´s a price to pay - to the eton rifles
hello-hurray - i´d prefer the plague - to the eton rifles (repeat)
precious - paul weller
your precious love - that means so much
will it ever stop - or will i just lose touch
what i want to say - but my words just fail
is that i need it so - i can´t help myself
like a hungry child - i just help myself
and when i´m full up - i go out to play
but i don´t mean to bleed you dry
or take you over for the rest of your life
it´s just that i need something solid in mine
lonely as the moors on a winter´s morning
quiet as the sea on a cool calm night
in your tranquil shadow - i try and follow
i hear your distant show clicks
to the midnight beat -
i feel trapped in sorrow
in this imagery
but that´s how i am and why i need you so