That sickly sweet chocolate taste is a lingering reminder
He’ll be back again tonight
Sweet-talking you out of bed
Your father, he does love you, but not the way fathers usually love their daughters
Oh honey, you’re too pretty for the other boys at school
And your mother’s in bed with your brothers giving head
Look out!
They’re alive again tonight, and you wish that everything will be alright
But you’re late again this month
And everything’s a little bit sweeter with chocolate on your lips
Better than the baby on your hips, oh put the cutter down, and bring yourself to bed
So he can “gent-early” caress, and the sounds of the street, come crawling with defeat
Through the window, like your bigger brother the other night
When his crack pipe no longer lights, it’s a habit that she gave to him
Like the deformities of your mind, and the way your mangled body squirms
Oh dear, you've fallen down again
And the kids at school all laugh
Because your shabby clothes smell like kebabs, and ****, and last night’s brown-watered bath
Watch out!
It’s dark on the streets today, when the clouds refuse to go away
So wander the estate wondering if this is how it is, if this is all there is
To be the doll tied down for everybody’s love
Dangled up above, you on the bed
Just playing dead
You tried to not enjoy it, you tried to tell your secrets
But you’re a liar and a cheat, and nobody believes the scars, or bruises on your knees
Get it together; you could leave it all one day
Like your sister did before
Only now she lives next door
With a ghetto husband of not so distant relation
And you hear him beat her when he’s drunk
And you hear him beat her when he’s sober
And you hear him beat her when she’s unconscious
And you hear him
And the whole street hears him
So you wonder if they can hear you too
Echoes through the zoo, that you call home
Monkeyed enclosure of ***** flinging beasts and your mother getting ****** on in the shower
Every hour on the hour
Because your father loves the power
Listen out! Can you hear them?
Dear reader, look outwards from the window
And see the way her winds blow, how she walks the streets so aimlessly
Dead inside her eyes, where the spirit cries out in the morning when she’s late for school
Because her father’s got whiskey **** again, and now she’s trapped underneath him
And her mother’s fast asleep on the floor
Stupor of the soul, it’s always taking hold
Cover up the sadness, or cut away the grief
Everything is different when they’re taken by police
And now you’re sat in a foster home, feeling welcome
Until Mr. Saviour creepily creaks the door
And your freeze in fear
Because you feel that your father’s here
And Mrs. Saviour is in the next room with the others
Loosely inspired by a (many?) Pulp song(s) and one or two families I knew back home. Written a few weeks ago whilst in a Missouri college lounge.
