Looking For Lot 49 - The Jazz Butcher

You know I’m exactly like everyone else

Sometimes I get sick and sometimes I get tired

Sometimes I turn ugly it’s bad for my health

Sometimes I get frantic and think I’m inspired

Well now I try to be useful and I try to do good

I try to do kindness, act like I should

Sometimes I’m downhearted, then far-away friends

Will write me a line, will fire me up, and start me running again

Just when I feel like I should be dead and gone

You make me want to carry on

«The cold light of day» and «the heat of the night»

Make me wonder if language has turned out quite right

The scene is quite normal: a Saturday morning

The breakfast in ruins, the newspaper torn

And I’m starting to wish that I’d never been born

When a letter comes in with your handwriting on

And

A room full of postcards a room with a view

I stare at the street just for something to do

There’s a man on the sidewalk with egg in his hair

He’s got hands like Des Nilsen, I don’t like his stare

(celebrated U.K. murderer)

Everytime I look out of my window he’s there

But he’s only the postman so what do I care?

It’s just that I seem to be spending all my time

Looking for Lot 49

Lot 49