Hey mister a review
|
A word for salad
|
Is written by my friend
|
In penman
|
|
He uses long words
|
Like semiotics and semolina
|
But I counted
|
With
|
Enigma and metropolis
|
|
The lads go rampant on insignificant symbolism
|
And compound this with rude soulless obliqueness
|
|
Everything's coming to a grinding halt
|
I use such long words
|
|
It's all clever stuff
|
All this charming childish fiddling about aims for the anti-image
|
But it naturally creates the perfectly malleable image
|
|
Tantalizing enigma
|
Of the Cure
|
They try to take
|
Everything
|
|
But the Cure really
|
They're just trying to sell us something
|
Their product is more artificial than most
|
This is perhaps part of their
|
Masterplan
|
But it seems more like their naivity
|
|
Everything's coming to a grinding halt
|
Everything's coming to a grinding halt
|
Everything's coming to a grinding halt
|
|
Note how really songs what are made of (?)
|
Murk and marshes
|
Tawdry images
|
Inane realisations
|
Dull dull dull epigrams
|
Sometimes they sound like an avant-garde John Otway
|
Or an ugly spirit
|
|
Toy drumming
|
Sprightly bass
|
Limited guitar riff
|
|
Check the sheet out of my favorite book
|
|
People don't forget the penman
|
It's just that in 1979 people shouldn't be allowed to get away with things like this
|
|
I say.
|
|
-----------------
|
Desperate Journalist
|
The Cure |