"Cut!" used on superqueens album 'cheap shots', 2004

"Cut!"

my sister’s husband's daughter's man 
is on four kinds of drip
- you could say he's well connected
for the first time in his life
the remote control's the only thing
that's firmly in his grip
and gangrene's got the doctors
sharpening the knife

we're in marlboro country
on the flipside of the billboard
shovelling the horseshit
and the hidden costs

his stetson is a crew cut and a vacant stare
his six-gun changes channels
it's a lightning-tipped repeater
a lassoo of pure catarrh
stops conversation in its tracks
and he rides the satellite sierras
on a beige and black three-seater

"howdya feel, stevie boy?"
-"well, not too fucking clever"
"you giving up the cigs, then?"
-"i'm too young to say never"
"i see you're hooked up to a screen"
-"yeah, it's like a porn film, without the sex"
"guess you'll have to quit the ballet"
-"nah, i'll just teach myself some new steps"

and in the western tradition
he grins at his own jokes
and faces down the man in black
who smiles as he smokes
and he spits a bit of script
at the invisible director
"fuck it, take the battery out of that smoke detector,
i'm lighting up"

and the anaesthetic
fights to keep his thick mouth shut
and the doctors
and my sister's husband's daughter's man
shout "cut!"

'state hotel' (from the album 'cheap shots' by superqueens, 2004)

this is the hotel de la necrophile,
where money and the right skin can make it easier.
you can take it lying down or take it doggystyle
- the management will always try to please you.
you might well call this joint 'the living end',
as death squads tidy up, take out the trash,
in their unmarked cars to the wasteland
where fires turn dirty thinking into ash.
"cash prizes!"  cash prizes shine like steel traps.
gamblers fingers fill the bowls like cigarettes,
in the cocktail lounge which rings with dull handclaps,
as the cabaret reveals its non-exotic pets.
maybe the singers come and go
but the songs stay the same,
maybe hookers die but it's a case of 'vive la game'.
well i'm not saying i am no liar,
but i've got a question mark tattoo
that constantly desires
to know why i'm living in a first world state
in a third world state of mind
the satellite of love beams brightly, pouring out the hardcore:
religion and repeats.
heavy entertainers own the networks,
light entertainment keeps the people off the streets.
hearts break and some of them bleed
on placebo shows selling sensitive creeds,
because the network knows what the hotel needs
- bread and games and holy beads.
it's a circus in here and a jungle out there.
the mc cracks the whip and combs his hair
he's a democrat and debonair,
he charms lions with the lingo of the liar
while tv crews feed snuff movies to the greedy wire.
i'm not saying i am no liar
but i've got a question mark tattoo
that constantly desires
to know why i'm living in a first world state
in a third world state of mind
it's a circus in here and a jungle out there,
and the big cats keep you inside.
the paying guest becomes the passenger
and gets taken for a slow ride.

and outside clouds touch
and the lightning's a bracelet
- it ain't much,
and it gets missed by the graceless.
late summer and the cops are faceless
sharks cruising for a taste of a thought crime,
they roll down the windows
and they breathe out the bad times,
like a nerve-gas, all along the breadline,
like guard dogs, howling in the goldmine

i'm not saying i am no liar
but i've got a question mark tattoo
that constantly desires
to know why i'm living in a first world state
in a third world state of mind