Lightning Telegram
A small prick with a rusty pin
Took his father when he was a teen
After that he washed his hands obsessively
In the solitude of cell 103
A teenage marxist discovering poetry
Ready to jettison all of history
Slapping taste in the face
Shooting art through the heart
Trying to manufacture happiness
A bayonet pen, a backbone flute
Drunk with glory, but no parachute
As he fell out of love with this world far too fast
How strange to be a futurist from the past
Brooding in his yellow blouse with knotted brows
The kind of man to love his best friend's wife
Then say "Our planet is poorly equipped for delight"
How strange to be a futurist from the past
Trapped in a love triangle and a communist tangle
Towering above it all and debasing his art
A satirist yearning for acceptance by his targets
44 years before I was born
He drew a lead full stop
How could it have ended any other way?
He was not a man for slow decay
After his second death
He became what he'd hated
Airbrushed and tone deaf
Crudely, unthinkingly celebrated
Now send me a lightning telegram, you said it would crush my dreams
Your revolutionary art put a bullet through your heart
Took his father when he was a teen
After that he washed his hands obsessively
In the solitude of cell 103
A teenage marxist discovering poetry
Ready to jettison all of history
Slapping taste in the face
Shooting art through the heart
Trying to manufacture happiness
A bayonet pen, a backbone flute
Drunk with glory, but no parachute
As he fell out of love with this world far too fast
How strange to be a futurist from the past
Brooding in his yellow blouse with knotted brows
The kind of man to love his best friend's wife
Then say "Our planet is poorly equipped for delight"
How strange to be a futurist from the past
Trapped in a love triangle and a communist tangle
Towering above it all and debasing his art
A satirist yearning for acceptance by his targets
44 years before I was born
He drew a lead full stop
How could it have ended any other way?
He was not a man for slow decay
After his second death
He became what he'd hated
Airbrushed and tone deaf
Crudely, unthinkingly celebrated
Now send me a lightning telegram, you said it would crush my dreams
Your revolutionary art put a bullet through your heart
Credits
Writer(s): Joe Peacock
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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