From its ‘Kirk-in-furs verses the gay slave’ beginnings to a rain-swept precinct sequence, our hardend grey protagonist dreams of the powder-coloured, elementally ravished exterior embellishments it shall never possess.
lyrics
Fresh faeces washed from faces
Amid a downpour
Dreams of pastel palaces
And crumbling balustrades
Jejunely faces greet me
They stare meekly at me
Whilst they micturate on my back
Damn the architect of my making
I wasn’t meant to be here
Oh, Number seventy-one
The foundations are strong but the soul is weak
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