The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy – Letras de Rebecca Wants Her Bike Back

You don't look like a hero
Of the Soviet Union to me
You look more like a fish
Come walking down the street
And you can tell that everybody agrees
You oughtta be on a dish
You've got your mind made up
Like you've got your head in a bush
And to move it around
Just hurts too much

And it's no good saying you're in love With the modern world
When those streets are all filled
With those impossible
Red-haired girls

You don't look like the spokesman
For a generation to me
I've got a postage stamp here
For what you know of Philosophy.
You're like Thomas Hobbes:
Nasty, brutish and short

He's drawing back the curtain
It's a brand new day
There's rubble on the carpet
Cause his friends came to stay
I'm over on the carpet
10 years on other peoples' floors
And you learn a little something
You learn a little something
That you can't ignore

And it's no good telling me
You're still in love
With the modern world
When those streets are all filled
With those impossible red-haired
Impossible red, red, red-haired girls

Whip on, Jim.

You betcha'

Watch that spaceman drive that car
Where he's going ain't too far

And Rebecca wants her bike back

Here it comes