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Cure, The Paris (live) One Hundred Years It doesn't matter if we all die Ambition in the back of a black car In a high building there is so much to do Going home time A story on the radio Something small falls out of your mouth And we laugh A prayer for something better A prayer For something better Please love me Meet my mother But the fear takes hold Creeping up the stairs in the dark Waiting for the death blow Waiting for the death blow Waiting for the death blow Stroking your hair as the patriots are shot Fighting for freedom on the television Sharing the world with slaughtered pigs Have we got everything? She struggles to get away . . . The pain And the creeping feeling A little black haired girl Waiting for saturday The death of her father pushing her Pushing her white face into the mirror Aching inside me And turn me round Just like the old days Just like the old days Just like the old days Just like the old days Caressing an old man And painting a lifeless face Just a piece of new meat in a clean room The soldiers close in under a yellow moon All shadows and deliverance Under a black flag A hundred years of blood Crimson The ribbon tightens round my throat I open my mouth And my head bursts open A sound like a tiger thrashing in the water Thrashing in the water Over and over We die one after the other Over and over We die one after the other One after the other One after the other One after the other One after the other It feels like a hundred years A hundred years A hundred years A hundred years A hundred years One hundred years |
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