Текст Matt McAndrew – Shoe Suede Blues

Fitzgerald and eyeliner makes a vengeful promise
«I walk the train tracks», he says, «and leave town on Thomas»
He’s a hybrid pedestrian, sent to brighten things
With a saltwater bucket and swimmin’ diamond rings

Ogling, scheming, paring Jodhpurs people
You must marry her, don’t parry the old stone steeple
Charcoal weds fire in warm weather attire
Unofficial symbols, thumbnails and thimbles
Today is muting yesterday, there’s nothin’ to learn
From their mindless information with our privileges burned

So roll over John Lennon, tell McCartney the news
I’m a bad macaroni with the shoe suede blues, alright

Edison’s Infirmary, concrete and cynic
Cripples the seventy-three candle Clinic
But this week’s lollipops are under the bed
So let’s put some more Laurel’s on that pretty little head
I see you got your civil scouts and your diving beaks
As darling daisies bloom and far off Castro speaks

This is not an equinox, it’s a time to wear short socks
While the red fox on detox orders a seagull on the rocks
Old paint smock October is keen to take over
And remind us that the leaves are all deciduous clovers
You know the cops they dip their pens in our sad revenue ink
And you can go play with the pigs but man you might turn pink

So roll over John Lennon, tell McCartney the news
I’m a bad macaroni with the shoe suede blues, alright

Her pilot’s TV is misbehaving while I’m shaving
And the golden lover’s locket’s learnin’ self-engraving

We got an obeyed thesis, and an isthmus opinion
But the casino queen she gambles in her own dominion
It’s a shrill overture to stay in love with her
She’s got costumer shanks to break your piggy banks
And she’ll make your pockets purr
Now the king, he’s always hanging around the tabloid scene
‘Cause he sabotaged the yellow-green voting machine

So roll over John Lennon, tell McCartney the news
I’m a bad macaroni with the shoe suede blues, alright

This bozo’s blunt interest in a Museum warhead
Got him a ride in a hearse and a hell-bound flowerbed
It’s an alarming parade, when you’re finally cold
Is that musty unselfishness or smell of the old?
The Faulkner of our floral dawn has just moved on
But if time flies by in Rimbaud skies, what’s takin’ so long?

I’m at the big, pillowed burial of Pulsing Picasso
And I’ve given ear to crows and screaming Vincent Van Gogh
As the sun sets on the summer and my gazebo mother
I watch her stare out at the sea like all the others
She fillin’ her bone marrow with aspirin arrows
But she let me sing like Elvis when he looked a pharaoh

So roll over John Lennon, tell McCartney the news
I’m a bad macaroni with the shoe suede blues, alright