Texty: Beck. Mutations. Tropicalia.

Oh, when they beat upon a broken guitar
And all the streets, they reek of tropical charms
The embassies lie in hideous shards
Where tourists snore and decay

When they dance in a reptile blaze
You wear a mask, an equatorial haze
Into the past, a colonial maze
Where there's no more confetti to throw

You wouldn't know what to say to yourself
Love is a poverty you couldn't sell
Misery waits in vague hotels
To be evicted

You're out of luck, you're singing funeral songs
To the studs, they're anabolic and bronze
They seem to strut in their millennial fogs
'Til they fall down and deflate


You wouldn't know what to say to yourself
Love is a poverty you couldn't sell
Misery waits in vague hotels
To be evicted

Oh, and now, you've had your fun
Under an air-conditioned sun
It's burned into your eyes
Leaves you plain and left behind
I'll see them rise and fall
Into the jaws of a pestilent love

You wouldn't know what to say to yourself
Love is a poverty you couldn't sell
Misery waits in vague hotels
To be a victim