Tufnell Park
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Sing along:
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Tell me, were you public school? Tell me, did you board?
Not see daddy one year to the next?
Tell how I know: because you think each shouted word
You make is like some fat and sacred text.
If you’d had a father, who stood by you as you grew
You’d learn a crucial lesson, from his wit.
You’re nothing in this life, and your lousy point of view
Means nothing in this rolling mound of shit.
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Oh, damn your gastropub nights and pathetic little friends
Who chatter like the bones of long dead sharks.
Damn your conversations and your Paris fashion ends.
There’s more life down the road, entombed with Marx.
Damn your interruptions, and requests I tone it down
And play some background muzak to your prattle.
I’ll keep up my noise until the day you’re overthrown
By chortling up to a choking rattle.
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Have me play some alley, where at least I might be stabbed
And live my life deliciously in dying.
Have me play a gutter, where the water’s dried and ebbed:
A skinny dog can join me in my sighing.
Have me play a road of ghosts, where Turpin stole at dark:
Have me play to gangster gun grips, tightening.
But please don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park:
Can’t you strike the fucking place with lightning?
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Tell me, were you public school? Tell me, did you board?
Not see daddy one year to the next?
Tell how I know: because you think each shouted word
You make is like some fat and sacred text.
If you’d had a father, who stood by you as you grew
You’d learn a crucial lesson, from his wit.
You’re nothing in this life, and your lousy point of view
Means nothing in this rolling mound of shit.
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Oh, damn your gastropub nights and pathetic little friends
Who chatter like the bones of long dead sharks.
Damn your conversations and your Paris fashion ends.
There’s more life down the road, entombed with Marx.
Damn your interruptions, and requests I tone it down
And play some background muzak to your prattle.
I’ll keep up my noise until the day you’re overthrown
By chortling up to a choking rattle.
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Have me play some alley, where at least I might be stabbed
And live my life deliciously in dying.
Have me play a gutter, where the water’s dried and ebbed:
A skinny dog can join me in my sighing.
Have me play a road of ghosts, where Turpin stole at dark:
Have me play to gangster gun grips, tightening.
But please don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park:
Can’t you strike the fucking place with lightning?
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Comments
Then my work is done.
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Tell me, were they public school? Tell me, did they board?
Not see daddy one year to the next?
Tell you how I know: because they think each shouted word
They make is like some fat and sacred text.
If they’d had a father, who stood by them as them grew
They’d learn a crucial lesson, from his wit:
We’re nothing in this life, and our lousy point of view
Means nothing in this rolling mound of shit.
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Oh, damn their gastro nights and their pathetic little friends
Who chatter like the bones of long dead sharks.
Damn their conversations and their Paris fashion ends.
There’s more life down the road, entombed with Marx.
Damn their interruptions, and requests we tone it down
And play some background muzak to their prattle.
We’ll keep up my noise until the day they’re overthrown
By chortling, into a choking rattle.
Dear God, don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park
Don’t make me play that gig up on the hill
Have me mugged by hoodies, and murdered after dark;
Fed to lions; any kind of kill
But please God, don’t you make me play where pretty people roam
Not to hear my sounds but to be seen
I hate their silks and satins, and their cappuccino foam.
What a pretty place it might have been.
Have me play some alley, where at least I might be stabbed
And live my life deliciously in dying.
Have me play a gutter, where the water’s dried and ebbed:
A skinny dog can join me in my sighing.
Have me play a road of ghosts, where Turpin stole at dark:
Have me play to gangster gun grips, tightening.
But please don’t make me play again in trendy Tufnell Park:
Can’t you strike the fucking place with lightning?
And I don't feel right when you're gone away
The shabby genteel reputation of Tufnell Park made it a standard comic reference in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
Shabby genteel...I like that.
But it does sound a bit odd.
Glad you had a good show.
I learn something new everyday...Mr Pooter is from Tufnell Park.
And I don't feel right when you're gone away