Song Stories

Mr Writer, why don't you tell it like it is? Why don't you tell it like it really is Why don't you tell it how it really is Before you go on home?

So I start a revolution from my bed 'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head

And the walls kept tumbling down In the city that we love Grey clouds roll over the hills Bringing darkness from above

They're selling razor blades and mirrors in the street I pray that when I'm coming down you'll be asleep If I ever hurt you your revenge will be so sweet Because I'm scum And I'm your son

Light touched my hands in a dream of golden skans From now on, you can forget all future plans

Well, now what can a poor boy do Except to sing for a rock and roll band? 'Cause in sleepy London Town There's just no place for street fighting man, no

You could have a steam train If you'd just lay down your tracks You could have an aeroplane flying If you bring your blue sky back

Beetlebum What you done? She's a gun Now what you done, beetlebum?

Oh, baby, won't you let me in? My mind is saying sink or swim

Come on, Harry, we wanna say goodnight to you

Just to have some dreaming Dreaming is free

I put a taqueria on the roof, it was well reviewed Four stars out of five And that's unheard of