You say that I'm a bigot. No sir! No sir!
I have lots of swishy friends around, I do, I do-dah-do
But a bunch of those together
Can only do the Devil's work, and it's the Devil's work they do
Finding beauty in ugly things is alright...to a point!
And have you seen that cross-breed of the high-brow and the low?
It's a note tied to a brick that reads:
Freedom, foul freedom, we are free to foul whatever, and we will
Why can't these people see? Theirs is a life of mimicry
They are fathers without sons or daughters
They are bathers at the mouth of a literary delta
It isn't poetry
It's an orchestration, orchestration of their own demise
And you'll call me a bigot, or a dog in the manger
But I've seen them in the commons with their kerchiefs and tattoos
And a bunch of those together
Can only do the Devil's work, and it's the Devil's work they do
Final Fantasy - The Ballad Of No-Face Lyrics
Final Fantasy - The Ballad Of No-Face Lyrics
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You say that I'm a bigot. No sir! No sir!
I have lots of swishy friends around, I do, I do-dah-do
But a bunch of those together
Can only do the Devil's work, and it's the Devil's work they do
Finding beauty in ugly things is alright...to a point!
And have you seen that cross-breed of the high-brow and the low?
It's a note tied to a brick that reads:
Freedom, foul freedom, we are free to foul whatever, and we will
Why can't these people see? Theirs is a life of mimicry
They are fathers without sons or daughters
They are bathers at the mouth of a literary delta
It isn't poetry
It's an orchestration, orchestration of their own demise
And you'll call me a bigot, or a dog in the manger
But I've seen them in the commons with their kerchiefs and tattoos
And a bunch of those together
Can only do the Devil's work, and it's the Devil's work they do
I have lots of swishy friends around, I do, I do-dah-do
But a bunch of those together
Can only do the Devil's work, and it's the Devil's work they do
Finding beauty in ugly things is alright...to a point!
And have you seen that cross-breed of the high-brow and the low?
It's a note tied to a brick that reads:
Freedom, foul freedom, we are free to foul whatever, and we will
Why can't these people see? Theirs is a life of mimicry
They are fathers without sons or daughters
They are bathers at the mouth of a literary delta
It isn't poetry
It's an orchestration, orchestration of their own demise
And you'll call me a bigot, or a dog in the manger
But I've seen them in the commons with their kerchiefs and tattoos
And a bunch of those together
Can only do the Devil's work, and it's the Devil's work they do