The White Knuckle Express — текст песни (The Fatima Mansions)

This truck stop: rancid gravy
A man with no hands waving
and the dog `round my leg bumps and grinds
It rains for miles out there
on mud and tar and still air
and the fungus-lined gap between stinking towns

Pork-Eyes got him a brand new hand
He`s gonna grasp you
He won`t ask you
and he`ll tell you it`s all your fault

CHORUS:
The cup runneth over, your jaws to bless
on the white-knuckle express

She is [grace?] naked, I cannot see her face
She slides across me
I am wearing a collar and a tie

We`re tuneful, cute and giving
See, that`s how we make our living
In a hall full of corpses, we`d smile and bounce on
Some say it`s aimless bullshit
but they come from big houses and budgets
and, although I don`t look it, I`m getting really fucking old

Pork-Eyes, in the presence of a sweet young girl:
He`s gonna spill you, it better thrill you,
or he`ll tear this place apart
Pork-Eyes! We`re going up! Feet-first, feet-first!
and the legend on that girl`s thigh reads "Love = Hurt = Hate"--CHORUS

Pork-Eyes, he will stroke your long hair tenderly in all the waterfront bars
where the wine and hollow talk-of-men will muffle things that really, really are
and you`ll go back to your room with him on your healthy sandalled feet
to come out minutes later, bleeding, torn above, torn underneath...