Half Plant, Half Ghost

You’re a bunch of
A bunch of fucking hippies
With your fiances
Your pieties and pities
Yeah, my sweatheart
Yearns to burn you all to ashes
'Cause you’re tinder
Dry pigskin stuffed with matches
Yeah, you’re all fucking tapeworms in love
With your wipe-clean reason and stomach bugs
We’ll burn your straw men in their hearses
Steal the hiring pins from the pistols in your purses
You’re a bunch of
A bunch of fucking hippies
And I’m half plant, half ghost…
We were born twins
One Thatcherite December
She smells like home
A home I can’t remember
But you’re all nothing but tapeworms in love
With your wipe-clean reason and stomach bugs
We’ll burn your straw men in their hearses
Steal the hiring pins from the pistols in your purses
And we don’t care if you go pure or shameful
As long as it’s long, drawn out and painful
And I’m half plant, half ghost…
«You're a bunch of
A bunch of fucking fascists.»
And I turn back laughing
But she’s run off, weeping, with my matches