Jack Cookson - Thistles

Well the morning is sore, the morning is exposed,
in the morning I awake with my pillow case stained red.
Next time I’ll just put myself in the washing machine,
for a contorted baptism at 30, maybe 40 degrees.

‘Cause after all I’m a citizen of Europe’s congestion capital,
but I can weave between those cars on my Diamond Back Sorrento.
When I left Plymouth I watched those hills slowly turn to plains,
as I crawled up the South West face of this island I call malaise.

I’ve been chewed up and spat out by a behemoth called Bristol.
Landed in a thicket somewhere far away,
and I’m still picking out thistles. Oh, I am still picking out thistles.

By the afternoon I’m feeling some sunny spells of calm
for I have walked my black dog into a fitful stirring slumber.
So we can go walk in that field we always thought would be nice to go walk in when we saw it from the window of a First Great Western train.

You’ve been chewed up and spat out by a behemoth called Bristol.
Next to me in a thicket somewhere far away,
and you’re still picking out thistles. Oh, I am still picking out thistles too.

So if nothing in this life moves us quite so much as music and misery,
lets marry the two by moonlight, and self-indulgently sing ourselves to sleep.

We’ve been chewed up and spat out by a behemoth called Bristol.
We landed in a thicket somewhere far away, and we’re still picking out thistles.