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lyrics

To the country, this city’s sinking
Like a corpse covered in coins and gold lace
And they will only ever dish out the tools
To hide away our face
So we’ll build up in the wilderness as a savage race
Return with the toolsTo tempt away those with a little taste

Old soho, eccentricities of art, brick and booze
Now diluted by steelwork
Used to feel like writing songs
Drowning in gutters with John Hurt
To the country with our pockets full of dreams
Fresh earth and fuck work

Oh my old bride, sick of silver pits
As the life and the colour drips
From the alleys where we used to kiss
And we could stay, give ‘em hell each day
Whittle all our little lives away
To the country where we still fit

Now its digital, our better power lies
In correlation of plans, gathering of massesAnd death of lies
When we all are saying no as a chorus
And our empathy is finally tried
To the country and our flags, bibles and guns
They’re gonna burn on fires

Oh your dreams, so much louder than a symphony
Hard and jagged like black sand
But they’re delicate like bubbles
As you carry them round in your hand
Only let the wizards see the colour and shape
Cos they understand

Oh my old bride, sick of silver pits
As the life and the colour drips
From the alleys where we used to kiss
And we could stay, give ‘em hell each day
Whittle all our little lives away
To the country where we still fit

credits

from O Veisalgia, released November 1, 2023

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Russell Joslin Greater London, UK

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