Текст: Los Campesinos!. Romance Is Boring. Straight In At 11.

I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock
Feels like the build up takes forever but you never get me off
You pull your dress over your face and I stare down towards my chest
Chastise both our greasy hair, wonder whose gut is the softest

Stand with my ear to the door listening to the landing floorboards
Working out when we'll be safe to dash the mattress to your bathroom
Where I ball my fingers into fists until my knuckles glow bright white
Press the heels into eye sockets 'til I see the flashing lights

Stop me when my stories change, when they have started to repeat
'Cause last time I was a mess of sleep of icy feet

So baby, all apologies
It was going to happen inevitably

I think we need more post-coital and less post-rock
Feels like the build up takes forever but you never touch my cock
And what exactly do you mean now by what can you even eat?
And how does that affect how I'll get off this evening?

I flew down south to Mexico, had a minor realization
I understood why kids draw the sun with its rays emanating
And the beams broke the clouds, the sky were like a concertina
A town in my pocket for weeks folded up from a picture

I've been playing straight chicken with gay girls, it's never enough
She keeps on pulling the peace sign and it seems like a torch
She licked the glaze on her lips, they shone like Battleship Grey
She never liked the wisdom I gave

Some people give themselves to religion
Some people give themselves to a cause
Some people give themselves to a lover
I have to give myself to goals

So baby, all apologies
It was going to happen inevitably
And if it helps, I mean even slightly at all
It's best you dust yourself down and get straight back on the horse

I condescend a smile and wink directly at the camera
And leave you letting both our senses, I tiptoe out the backdoor
I skip down, I see streets in view my face in the reflection
Of a High Street lingerie store though it wasn't my intention

I phoned my friends and family to gather 'round the television
The talking heads count down the most
Heart wrenching break-ups of all time
Imagine the great sense of waste, the indignity, the embarrassment
When not a single one of that whole century was mine