Warts All by Niall James Holohan Lyrics
A deathly clown
In Punchestown
Tells of a troll who's pith and who's gall -
Made famous those people
Who knew all the repose of a steeple
Not the feeling I feel now, among you all
A steady melodious hand
May map the midlands
May guide ships and steady stars in shitty weather
But calm of a kind, blissful, blinded
Need not be reminder
When seen up close and not from afar through thick heather
And terror
Your hands aren't at all smooth
But rough, rude, tough and lude
As the base of an Eden quay bin
But I, I'm tied to silence
I cry love over violence
When you run them over my skin
Your eyebrows sit victim and fucked
And truck fate and bad luck
With the one you've got left not made of glass
My hands will forever quiver
When you cock that iris
And turn that sliver
With a look cooked over the world smolt in ash
The teeth don't shine, they protrude
You horse mouth squawks and exudes
Clairvoyant traps and hyperbolic bile
Yeah, my dull heart murmurs then swells, juicy and fat
As that of a vampire sewer rat
When you strike an awful pose, look at my closely -
And smile
Your legs are hairy, thin and harsh
They barely hold up in the marsh
Your morose torso is a rare, meandering mess
But my hands are not fatigued
But rather fast and thus intrigued
To get the warmed up and under your dress
Your arse is flat as an unmarked slab
It belongs to a passing pot bellied fag
From some small useless suburb of Bristol I'll never visit
What can I say?
It runs be around until I'm back where I was bound
When I stole that Volvo and burned down the school -
In Chapelizod
Your back is crooked as an oak
Your neck is fucked and stuffed up with smoke
Your lungs sick and darkened
Your ears pricked and harkened
To the cacophony
But as soon as I've exhaled and spoken
I'm on my way to being broken
As I'm breaking when you're sat quiet listening to me
Your feet are odd an alarming
It seems one a geese's
One a farmer's
Your ankles bloated as an old hag's bag as she falls
Yet I'm strangely drawn
You're my moonlight, you're my song
I love, my love, warts and all
I love the horns upon your head
Your cloven hooves and you're red
Hot poker and tail
You're always making some delicate medicinal finding
So, when I see you work your dark magic on the world
I try to remember the hooded forest girl
You once were, fair and unread, fair, a little wood, a little riding
I love the fire in your belly
Sometimes dank and often smelly
I love especially your cryptic, apocalyptic septic premonitions
That make a sound but never posh or arty farty
And when people tell me you were spoiled
I know they're just jealous because they've been soiled
By other people's expectations that will only manage to be done in bad conditions and and at parties
As the executioner, aloof
On a Sandymount slate roof
Is declaring death to all women who refuse to wear powder
But his bullshit falls only on fans of deaf ears
You're nearer than his beer
And even joke "they can't hear you in Artane
Shout a little louder"
But not even the captain of Spain
Or the ordained king of rain
Knows what it is to see you truly
And to dance with you on a pale balcony
Far from the rush of a ball
Shall we say I'm eternally spread across
Your daily bread and your midnight moss
I love you, my love, warts and all
Is Charlie Parker had lived
He have torn off the lid
That you keep on your sense of good taste
In Punchestown
Tells of a troll who's pith and who's gall -
Made famous those people
Who knew all the repose of a steeple
Not the feeling I feel now, among you all
A steady melodious hand
May map the midlands
May guide ships and steady stars in shitty weather
But calm of a kind, blissful, blinded
Need not be reminder
When seen up close and not from afar through thick heather
And terror
Your hands aren't at all smooth
But rough, rude, tough and lude
As the base of an Eden quay bin
But I, I'm tied to silence
I cry love over violence
When you run them over my skin
Your eyebrows sit victim and fucked
And truck fate and bad luck
With the one you've got left not made of glass
My hands will forever quiver
When you cock that iris
And turn that sliver
With a look cooked over the world smolt in ash
The teeth don't shine, they protrude
You horse mouth squawks and exudes
Clairvoyant traps and hyperbolic bile
Yeah, my dull heart murmurs then swells, juicy and fat
As that of a vampire sewer rat
When you strike an awful pose, look at my closely -
And smile
Your legs are hairy, thin and harsh
They barely hold up in the marsh
Your morose torso is a rare, meandering mess
But my hands are not fatigued
But rather fast and thus intrigued
To get the warmed up and under your dress
Your arse is flat as an unmarked slab
It belongs to a passing pot bellied fag
From some small useless suburb of Bristol I'll never visit
What can I say?
It runs be around until I'm back where I was bound
When I stole that Volvo and burned down the school -
In Chapelizod
Your back is crooked as an oak
Your neck is fucked and stuffed up with smoke
Your lungs sick and darkened
Your ears pricked and harkened
To the cacophony
But as soon as I've exhaled and spoken
I'm on my way to being broken
As I'm breaking when you're sat quiet listening to me
Your feet are odd an alarming
It seems one a geese's
One a farmer's
Your ankles bloated as an old hag's bag as she falls
Yet I'm strangely drawn
You're my moonlight, you're my song
I love, my love, warts and all
I love the horns upon your head
Your cloven hooves and you're red
Hot poker and tail
You're always making some delicate medicinal finding
So, when I see you work your dark magic on the world
I try to remember the hooded forest girl
You once were, fair and unread, fair, a little wood, a little riding
I love the fire in your belly
Sometimes dank and often smelly
I love especially your cryptic, apocalyptic septic premonitions
That make a sound but never posh or arty farty
And when people tell me you were spoiled
I know they're just jealous because they've been soiled
By other people's expectations that will only manage to be done in bad conditions and and at parties
As the executioner, aloof
On a Sandymount slate roof
Is declaring death to all women who refuse to wear powder
But his bullshit falls only on fans of deaf ears
You're nearer than his beer
And even joke "they can't hear you in Artane
Shout a little louder"
But not even the captain of Spain
Or the ordained king of rain
Knows what it is to see you truly
And to dance with you on a pale balcony
Far from the rush of a ball
Shall we say I'm eternally spread across
Your daily bread and your midnight moss
I love you, my love, warts and all
Is Charlie Parker had lived
He have torn off the lid
That you keep on your sense of good taste