Texty:
Augie March Moo You Bloody Choir

morn. On my Exford legs, on my Exford walk, Bury my brains in my Exford talk, Til there's nothing I wouldn't do To be sitting and talking with you

remember ever liking that, Don't touch me babe, roll over. O brother, you don't know what you've got, only time flies... You've gotta do some clockwork. Sometimes you

. Rise, rise, rise and tune your pianos, I hear the wind whistle through their teeth, you cheating sons from your deep, your dreamless, endless, arse-facing, walking sleep... (you

you should be listening like a river to the end of my curdled song, Nobody knows what madness could come along. Now if you see a being borne into a trap you

it like I know more, I'm sorry darling but your roving poet's just a bank balance troubadour, who can't sing the song anymore. At ten o'clock is when you

plots of my birth. My heart is a cold acre, in my chest is a cold acre, I know any good anymore from the bad except there's one that you have and one that you

O how my great liberal heart labours, With the piss in my rivers and gall, Before gleaming ceremonial sabres, Who falls on them falls for us all...