Nobokov is sun-licked now
Upon the beach at Gruenwald
Brilliant and naked just
The way that authors looks
Clare and Lady Manners drink
Until the other cows go home
Gossip till their lips are bleeding
Politics and all
I'd rather be high
I'd rather be flying
I'd rather be dead
Or out of my head
Than training these guns on those men in the sand
I'd rather be high
The Thames was black, the tower dark
I flew to Cairo, find my regiment
City's full of generals
And generals full of shit
I stumble to the graveyard and I
Lay down by my parents, whisper
Just remember duckies
Everybody gets got
I'd rather be high
I'd rather be flying
I'd rather be dead
Or out of my head
Than training these guns of those men in the sand
I'd rather be high
I'm seventeen and my looks can prove it
I'm so afraid that I will lose it
I'd rather smoke and phone my ex
Be pleading for some teenage sex
Yeah
I'd rather be high
I'd rather be flying
I'd rather be dead
Or out of my head
Than training these guns on the men in the sand
I'd rather be high
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I'd rather smoke and phone my ex/Be pleading for some teenage sex
Not so much a stoner anthem than a harrowing bittersweet pop-nugget wrought with anxiety and various types of teenage kicks as a means of bygone medication, there’s still humor in this freaky deeky mind-trip, shook with the fuzzy guitar work of his iconic ‘Berlin’ period.
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