Head to the sea   All fit to pay   The radio is pushing cultural decay      You've earned your bread   Fat on the beach   There's lots of fishing here   But nothing safe to eat      All this obsession on what's perfect   Dresses with the patterns from the curtains      I'll drink to hell   A bloated wreck   A whiskey holster flask   A GBV cassette      So let's assume   There won't be a mess   The crooked money men   Will always hedge their bets      All this agreement on what's certain   No one can peek behind the curtain   We're far from the safety of the mainland   A gold star swimmer in the deep end