City smells of paperbacks rolled up in jacket pockets,   Paperbacks that serve to say “Yes I’m well read, now will you fuck me?”   City smells of lonesome singers singing lonesome songs   In a barroom where the shadows they grow longer with each note he fails to catch      The city smells of you, woke up in dope-sick stupor,   I’m here, I lay awake in case you needed me   For when I fall asleep I’m hard to shake, what with the pills I have to take   To force the dreams back to the bottom of the arsehole of my mind      Country smells of taunting spiteful train-tracks,   And the faces that peer out along the way to somewhere I’m afraid to go   Smells of sun-bleached stones and sitting out reading de Sade   On April evenings, with the dusk accentuating every syllable      The country smells of hope, of hope for progression   Progression, and I will progress in spite of what I say,   Country smells of memories and words that I might speak   Or I might sing to you, if you were not so fuckin far away      City pierces sky, country hugs the dirt, and I here someplace in-between,   Not quite the wind, not quite the soil,   City reeks of loves I long to gain, the country, loves that I destroyed   And destroyed all that they had touched, and they touched me, they silenced me      The night-time smells of scheming and of plotting,   In the morning it’s forgotten,   For the morning smells of cold reality   The night-time is that city and that sky with stars obscured by neon etchings   From the gutters to the rooftops, never dimmin, never die   Never dimmin, never die