My boots are muddy and my hands are scuffed
wrote something about the last month… by Beau Nafyde
My boots are muddy and my hands are scuffed,
my taste is scruffy and my state is tough,
my face is bloody and my place is rough,
none of that matters nothing because I got love.
You can have millions in the bank and fancy jewels,
the adoration of idiots and fools,
fast cars and kids in nice schools,
none of that matters nothing next to love.
You can have a good job that pays,
a positive hobby when you want to play,
any number of great ways to waste your days,
but none of it matters if you ain’t got love.
So why try to save the world,
when I can’t even get the girl,
why stand in bitter winds with black flag unfurled?
all your battles just leave you knackered and unloved.
So I’ll sleep with the fleas and the bedbugs,
beast the police with the hedgehogs,
sleep is for the weak says the headfucked,
pass a hat for some funds for the unloved.
In trying to unfuck the world we fuck up ourselves,
and the remedy is not stocked on supermarket shelves,
we sleep with tubes of cement in tents instead of hotels,
but it’s nothing when you got love.
We’ve always lived in cracks in the wall,
lived through attacks with our backs to the wall,
come back from crashes and crack standing tall,
it was love behind it all.
Crawled through ditches and slept in hedgerows,
wrecked my head and developed meadows,
the dark days will forever play out their death throes,
but love protects from their echoes.
If we hang them they’ll sell us the rope,
sell us the remedy, sell us the dope,
without our enemies we can’t cope,
but if we ain’t got love we ain’t got a hope.
Some days I want to hang up my waterproof coat,
hang up my bandana and just bang some coke,
go to the pub with some hedonist folk,
but it’s not love it’s just another drunk joke.
So I’ll stand in the road getting soaked,
fight foul but I won’t be provoked,
they may break our noses or choke our throats,
but they ain’t got love,
and they ain’t got a hope.