I like people there, the ones who can’t stand — they’re the ones who can’t stand. I see smoke signals coming from them. They say, “we’re all out of Comics, sir.” Stand on your own head, for a change; give me some skin to call my own.
The sun is shining slowly, the birds are flying so low
Honey you’re my Sunday Comics, so pay me what you owe me
Solo voy con mi pena, sola va mi condena — correr es mi destino, por no llevar papel. Perdido en el corazón de la grande Babylon; me dicen los Sunday Comics: Yo soy el quiebra ley.
The trail ahead is dark and unsound, but I’m lapping it up like a greedy hound. Free at last of the city sounds, free at last to put my foot right down…Something out there is calling me, beckoning me with urgency; Comics, Comics, Sunday Comics.
You know it means no mercy, they caught him with a gun. No need for Sunday Comics, goodbye to the Brixton sun…You can crush us, you can bruise us, but you’ll have to answer to, the Sunday Comics.
Sunday Comics: it fillets, it chops, it dices, slices, never stops, lasts a lifetime, mows your lawn and it picks up the kids from school, it gets rid of unwanted facial hair, it gets rid of embarrassing age spots, it delivers a pizza, and it lengthens, and it strengthens, and it finds that slipper that’s been at large under the chaise lounge for several weeks.