LYRICS
Use A− / A+ to adjust text sizeDesperate Journalist
Hey mister a reviewA word for saladIs written by my friendIn penmanHe uses long wordsLike semiotics and semolinaBut I countedWithEnigma and metropolisThe lads go rampant on insignificant symbolismAnd compound this with rude soulless obliquenessEverything's coming to a grinding haltI use such long wordsIt's all clever stuffAll this charming childish fiddling about aims for the anti-imageBut it naturally creates the perfectly malleable imageTantalizing enigmaOf the CureThey try to takeEverythingBut the Cure reallyThey're just trying to sell us somethingTheir product is more artificial than mostThis is perhaps part of theirMasterplanBut it seems more like their naivityEverything's coming to a grinding haltEverything's coming to a grinding haltEverything's coming to a grinding haltNote how really songs what are made of (?)Murk and marshesTawdry imagesInane realisationsDull dull dull epigramsSometimes they sound like an avant-garde John OtwayOr an ugly spiritToy drummingSprightly bassLimited guitar riffCheck the sheet out of my favorite bookPeople don't forget the penmanIt's just that in 1979 people shouldn't be allowed to get away with things like thisI say.
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