I consider myself a realist (no I don’t) but I still feel that
I find my way into cheap utopian tat.
I’ll take tales of the liberty scene in Victor Hugo’s dream
Than the remnants of papa’s cigarette from 1923
Lying in the gutter of that (oh so) romantic city.
I could take the train there tomorrow but
I would find myself in utter sorrow when
I discover it’s just another country full of cunts like me (ha)
There’s nature (I’m not sure) where everything stays pure
But I still feel far away from my open door.
I could worship the great God Pan, it would be better than
Staying in and giving the TV advice about where it’s going wrong,
I wrote a song about it (it’s a hit) it’s on the tip of my tongue
It’s about how everyone’s old and I’m still young (getting older)
I’ve become a naturalist, a specialist in the human condition but
I’m not neutral, it’s humanity’s funeral when they can’t
Get their shit (drinks) together.
As I said before, I don’t believe in utopia anymore (don’t kid yourself)
It’s a roll of the die, I could be the Great Gatsby or the Catcher in the Rye
Do I aspire to the green light (I want money) or do I give up and whine?
Which one is right? I’m right all the time.
(That’s a lie)