Head to the sea
All fit to pay
The radio is pushing cultural decay
You've earned your bread
Fat on the beach
There's lots of fishing here
But nothing safe to eat
All this obsession on what's perfect
Dresses with the patterns from the curtains
I'll drink to hell
A bloated wreck
A whiskey holster flask
A GBV cassette
So let's assume
There won't be a mess
The crooked money men
Will always hedge their bets
All this agreement on what's certain
No one can peek behind the curtain
We're far from the safety of the mainland
A gold star swimmer in the deep end