It’s times like these that I need your honest words
You’ve heard I’m lost a little,
The way that you seem to get everything,
Knock me down with the truth but I dance,
This is a fine bromance!

In darker days than these you listened as I cursed the world,
Set nights on fire getting high away from guns and girls,
If life is really just a bunch of nearly men and kings
I think we’ve staked our right to fight until the beggars sing.

Oh really, really? This is clearly just my time to fall,
It’s not the first and it won’t be the last time that I call
On you to set me straight and talk until I see the light,
These darkened lanes won’t last forever, they’re just holy frights.

It’s times like these that I need your honest words
You’ve heard I’m lost a little,
The way that you seem to get everything,
Knock me down with the truth but I dance,
This is a fine bromance!

Want to see any other song lyrics from our free music 2 download? Just let us know.

Is she a deliciously dense and dirty bimmer who’s been bundled into the trunk of a sedan, praying for the A-Team to show up just in the nick of time? Perhaps it’s some kind of terrorist plot to overthrow the conspiritorial international spy ring headed up by the sex-starved, Sara-Lee-chocolate-gateaux-plastered Thatcher wannabees on Boots’ make-up counter.

Or maybe she’s an heroic figure in the community and the people who’ve got Joan just don’t know where they’d be without her.

Maybe it’s some kind of slang for a bastard of a disease.

Who knows? Whatever the story is, there’s definitely a reference to someone having Joan in “Silent Fishnets“, another recent music offering from Foilface, and nobody knows how it got there.

There are no junkies in Uzbekistan,
My gland is not aroused by photo’s of sailors,
Put down your onion sandals,
I handle death threats like they’re titties on a Tuesday,
I bruise like peaches but you will never ever see me
Reaching for a bacon licker!

Holistic Peter,
Aggressive Sebastian,
Talking like the last bastions
Of a nuclear future vision.
Crafty spoonfuls of a creme brulee,
It’s not a Tuesday, it’s a Saturday,
Fuck off Dad I’m going to Bob Hattersley’s,
Coz he’s got a Ninetendo Wii.

What’s that you’re saying?
You smell of translation frenzies,
This isn’t class based, it’s not an anti-euro message,
It’s just a rural riot,
If I had piloted a plane in 9/11
I would of tolf the muslims heaven
Was filled with fat virgin lesbians,

Holistic Peter,
Aggressive Sebastian,
Talking like the last bastions
Of a nuclear future vision.
Crafty spoonfuls of a creme brulee,
It’s not a Tuesday, it’s a Saturday,
Fuck off Dad I’m going to Bob Hattersley’s,
Coz he’s got a Ninetendo Wii.

Put out my fire I’m heading back to Soho,
I’m crying, “Oh no, oh no, oh no, I look like Simon Weston”,
I rest on laurels like they’re benches in a park,
I spark the dark but it never ever turns into an early sunshine.

There are no junkies in Uzbekistan,
My gland is not aroused by photo’s of sailors,
Put down your onion sandals,
I handle death threats like they’re titties on a Tuesday,
I bruise like peaches but you will never ever see me
Reaching for a bacon licker!