Sultans Of Swing
You get a shiver in the dark
It's raining in the park but meantime
South of the river you stop and you hold everything
A band is blowing Dixie double four time
You feel alright when you hear the music ring
And now you step inside but you don't see too many faces
Coming in out of the rain to hear the jazz go down
Competition in other places
Oh but the horns be blowing that sound
Way on down south, way on down south London town
You check out Guitar George, he knows all the chords
Mind he's strictly rhythm he doesn't want to make it cry or sing
But then an old guitar is all he can afford
When he gets up under the lights to play his thing
And Harry doesn't mind if he doesn't make the scene
He's got a daytime job, he's doing alright
He can play the honky tonk like anything
Saving it up for Friday night
With the Sultans... with the Sultans of Swing
And a crowd of young boys they're fooling around in the corner
Drunk and dressed in their best brown baggies and their platform soles
They don't give a damn about any trumpet playing band
It ain't what they call rock and roll
And the Sultans... Yea the Sultans that play Creole ...Creole
And then the man steps right up to the microphone
And says at last it's just the time bell rings
'Goodnight, now it's time to go home'
And he makes it fast with one more thing
'We are the Sultans... We are the Sultans of Swing'
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Self disgust will overpower. Overriding pain acceptance.
Preservation of your cursed hide. Submits to mutilation.
Revel in your attempts, to create the ultimate pain.
Death would undermine, your frenzied theatrics.
No wish for final curtain, or grizzled finale.
Pallor of your healthy flesh, gives the undesired effect.
You'd rather have it raw and crusted.
Reach for the sulphuric acid.
Writhe in burning agony.
Powerless to reject, scarred contentedness.
To ensure pleasure lingers, amputate your