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| damascus, 1998, cds, com, paroles, translation, libya, part, giovani, kuwait, | He's gone over, crunch, right on his mooey, like a fucking ironing board. His movie hooter's around here, his railings all over the fucking place. Me and me mum had to go the hospital to see him. We walked in. He's laying in bed. He's got tubes up his arms, fucking up his nose, down the movie back movie of his Gregory. He didn't look well. Fucking vodka was keeping him alive. Well, I ain't that interested, so I'm having a little mooch about, you know. I looked above his bed, and there's this sign, right, with some weird writing on it. I couldn't read too well at the time. I said to my mum, "Mum, what's that say? You know, that sign above Daddy's head." All right? She said, "Nil by mouth." "What's that, a football score?" |
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| And I'd just stand there looking at him. I'd look in his face, and my mother'd go upstairs, and damascus I'd say, "Say, Mum, ain't Daddy coming to bed?" And she'd say, "No. No, he's all right, son. He'll damascus come up when he wakes up." He's gotta wake up to go to bed! Now, I'd stand there looking at this fucking old man, you know, my dad, you know, in that chair, that horrible fucking chair with the shiny, worn-out arms. I should've burnt the fucking thing. By the end he was hemorrhaging from both ends, you know? I used to hear him in the morning hanging on to the kharzi. It was lovely. Never stopped him going to the pub, though. No, he was well enough to do that. Now, one day, right, he's staggering across the pub pissed from the night before. |
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