Blasting, billowing, bursting forth
With the power of ten billion butterfly sneezes
Man with his flaming pyre has conquered the wayward breezes
Climbing to tranquility, far above the cloud
Conceiving the heavens, clear of misty shroud
He’s the hairy handed gent who ran amok in Kent
Lately he’s been overheard in Mayfair
You better stay away from him, he’ll rip your lungs out Jim
Huh, I’d like to meet his tailor
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That whole album could be its own post in this thread 
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you’re
Suggest you organise a seance and tell Lou Reid
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Doesn’t make sense with any of those lyrics
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There was a man called William Price
Lived on lettuce nuts and rice
Walked the hills with nothing on
All the while he sang this song
I don’t give a bugger, I don’t give a bugger,
I don’t give a bugger,
What anyone thinks of me.
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Somewhere, somehow, somebody must have kicked you around some
Can’t decide if I prefer the live or studio version but what a tune
Probably posted before, and quite possibly by me, but seems apt while the Euro Footie thing is on
How can you lie there and think of England
When you don’t even know who is in the team?
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I go to parties sometimes until four
Its hard to leave when you can’t find the door
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Brilliant album, that! 
As breakup song putdowns go, this is a doozy…
“I followed you in to a stupidity pit
And then I couldn’t get out of it,
You’ve got the charisma of old rotting
Cheese to a colony of French maggots…”
Shana Cleveland : Evil Eye
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She was a girl from Birmingham
Her name was Pauline, she lived in a tree
I am not Jesus,though I have the same initials
Pulp - Dishes
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Never forget going to the marquee to see slaughter and the dogs,their van broke down
Once this was announced,it felt like there was going to be a mini riot,luckily the dj was quick to act and stuck this on.
Place went mad
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One for the ‘misheard lyrics’ thread - I always hear that as ‘Polly’.
I am Rong.
Think you are, the story behind the song always sounded a little unlikely to me but was defo Pauline
John L described it as a pro choice re abortion on a documentary I watched about the album, main point being it’s worse to have a kid if you plan to not want it
pretty cool lyrics and backstory plus a top drawer guitar riff makes for a fab song regardless
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“On the day Aaron Whitehead discovered he was a stain, he bought a 6" straight razor at Walmart for $1.59.
His squat, fat body sweated obscenely. Dark grease spots formed under the pits of his ‘BEER: IT’S NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE’ T-shirt. He looked like a panicked sow on the butcherblock.
“I’m a stain,” he mumbled, “I’m a stain.”
For 38 years Whitehead worked for the Georgia Department of Transportation in Stone Mountain. He started in the mailroom and moved up to xeroxing.
8 hours a day, 5 days a week for 23 years he Xeroxed maps in a solitary fluorescent-lit basement room, occasionally bending over to add toner.
He lived in a filthy one room efficiency on Decatur Street, a single light bulb hanged from a wire over his tattered bed. He had one chair and a small table littered with Kentucky fried chicken boXes, beer cans, and empty HO-HO cupcake wrappers.
Taped to the wall was a 1978 centerfold of ‘Beaver’ magazine. It showed dark red fingernails, spreading the cheeks of an enormous, sweat-glistening butt. He adored that picture.
Every day after work, every weekend, every Christmas, every Easter, every holiday, he sat in the front row of the Red Dot lounge, and letched; a wad of one dollar bills in his sweaty palm.
He letched with his eyes, he letched with his mouth, he letched with his tongue and his fingers.
His favorite was called the Magdalene. She could vibrate one cheek of her ass furiously while keeping the other perfectly still. It was poetry. One cheek in chaos, one stationary. One stationary, the other in chaos. Both in chaos, both stationary. The Ying, the Yang. The Yang, the Ying. Magnificence.
The sweaty boys sat mesmerized. She knew how to work them one by one, she stared into their eyes until a dollar appeared from their hypnotized fingers.
Whitehead couldn’t stand her gaze. His jowls would inflate and turn beet red. His breath would quicken, and his mouth would contort. Her eyes cut through him. She made him feel desired.
After collecting her money, the Magdalene hid in the back room and numbed herself with vodka. The vultures would want table dances and she had to be prepared. She always offered Whitehead one first. He was hideous, but he kept his hands to himself and never said a word.
After stumbling home from the Red Dot, Whitehead was usually too drunk to undress. He would waddle to the bed, fumble with his zipper, pull his cock out and fuck the pillow, occasionally glancing up at the butt on the wall for inspiration.
The night before he discovered he was a stain, Whitehead dreamt he was xeroxing live babies out of his photocopier. He collated the babies by weight and stamped ‘Department of Transportation’ on their foreheads. Everything was running smoothly. The babies were happy. The collating was simple, and the stamping, quick.
Then, the machine jammed. He had fed it too much paper. He panicked. Instead of hitting STOP, he hit ‘DOUBLE-SIDED STAPLED’. Blood gushed from the crevices of the machine. Tiny limbs spewed into the recaptacle trays.
He woke up, screaming. It was morning. The apartment seemed brighter than usual, more lurid. He could see everything: filth on the walls, the grime on the floor, the dust bunnies clinging to his chair. His skin was blotched, stained. There were stains on the ceiling; stains on the toilet; stains on the bed, the pillow, the sheets.
At work it was the same. Everything was blemished, spotted, pockmarked. He felt a weight crushing his chest. He spilt a bottle of toner and saw his reflection in the puddle.
‘I’m a stain,’ he realized, ‘I’m a stain.’
The razor from Walmart cut two incisions across each wrist. He laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling, his hands crossed on his belly. A warm, wetness enveloped him. He felt sleepy and sexual. He closed his eyes. He fantasized: he was at his funeral. The girls from the Red Dot lounge were huddled around his tombstone and passing around a bottle of Mad Dog. They were all dressed in fishnet and tight, black mini skirts.
The Magdalene wept hardest of all. She pulled up her skirt and vibrated her ass in the deepest of mourning. The others egged her on: ‘Go! Go! Raise him from the dead! Go!’
Soon she was naked, gyrating wildly as the tears roll down her face. She fell to her knees, exhausted. She called out his name again and again. She stayed there for hours, heartbroken and unconsolable.
Paying her final respect, she took the dollars from her garter and showered them over his grave.”
Magdalene - Alice Donut
Strong contender for ‘Greatest Disparity Between Lyric Sheet And Actual Song, Ever’…
…and it’s not even the most harrowing thing in that album…
Yep
That is a lyric that will certainly stick
To simplify
She Loves You Yeah Yeah Yeah