Pulp Deep Fried in Kelvin Lyrics:
Oh children of the future ... conceived in the
toilets at Meadowhall ... to be raised on the
cheap cold slabs of garage floors ... rolling
empty cans down the stairway ... (don't you love
that sound?) ... whilst the thoughts of a bad
social worker ran through his head ... trying to
remember what he learnt at training college ...
Lester said he wasn't allowed in here ... so why
don't you get lost? ... and if you grow up ...
then when you grow up, maybe ... maybe you can
live ... live on Kelvin ... yeah you can live in
Kelvin ... on the promenade with the concrete
walkways ... where pidgeons go to die ... (a woman
on the fourteenth floor noticed that the ceiling
was bulging as if under a great weight. When the
council investigated they discovered that the man
in the flat above had transported a large quantity
of soil into his living-room, in which several
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plants he had stolen from a local park were
growing. When questioned, the man said all he
wanted was a garden. When questioned, the man said
all he wanted was a garden.) ... Oh God, I think
the future's been fried ... deep fried in Kelvin
... and now it's rotting behind the remains of a
stolen motorbike ... I haven't touched it, honest
... but there isn't anything else to do ... we
don't need your sad attempts at social conscience
based on taxi-rides home at night when exhibition
opens ... we just want your car radio ... and
those Reflux speakers ... now ... suffer the
little children to come to me ... and I will tend
their adventure playground splinters with
cigarette burns and feed them fizzy orange and
chips ... and then they grow up straight and tall
... and then they grow up to live ... on Kelvin
... yeah ... we can have ghettos too ... only we
use air-rifles instead of machine-guns ... stitch
that ... and we drunk driving lights ... in the
end ... the question you have to ask yourself is
... are you talking to me ... or are you chewing a
brick?
Lyrics: Deep Fried in Kelvin, Pulp [end]