Troublemeat - Shriekback

It’s a wild thing, a brittle thing

Some know it as the instrument of yearning

It knows you will capitulate

You’re beeswax and the forest fires are burning

You can have a lot mates, break a lot of plates

Make it to the end in one piece but it’s still a mystery

It’s not some mighty vision

It’s more a dirty Polaroid of history

This thing has claws and poison spores

This is a dirty bomb that blows off all the doors

It’s what they call the troublemeat

The troublemeat

It’s a no-large-potato-thing

But all your good sense cannot hold a candle

It’s another pissing contest

'Tween the Devil and the nice guy in the sandals

You wanna say it’s on the blink, put it in the sink

Take it to the landfill then go home and take a shower

It leaves its greasy tidemark

In a place your cleaning products cannot scour

This bitch got wheels, it mass appeals

And you will surely not remember how it feels

That’s why they it’s called the troublemeat

The troublemeat

It’s an unprepossessive thing

A livid boil upon the arse of reason

It fucks with me perpetually

The filthy little monkey in its season

You can file away your teeth, get up on the heath

Howling in the pouring rain and find out who will listen

I don’t like to admit it

I sometimes think I live just for this frission

It licks its lips, swivels its hips

You think it’s elegant but it’s as cheap as chips

This lousy thing called troublemeat

The troublemeat