Tim Minchin - Teenage years | Текст песни

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• Tim Minchin
• Teenage years

I'm sneaking out tonight
Through the warmth of the night-air I'll pedal my bike
From the house where my parents are sleepin'
To the house of my rich mate whose folks are in Sweden

I'm getting drunk again
On a deadly cocktail of booze and Cobain
I'll reach Nirvana by one
Cos tonight my Teen Spirit is Bundaberg Rum

I've got the fingers of one hand wrapped ‘round
The neck of a bottle of Jim Beam and Cola
And the fingers of the other hand stuffed down the pants of my
Best friend's ex-girlfriend, or my ex-best friend's girlfriend
Or my ex-girlfriend's best friend… Who gives a toss?
Gently molesting your peers
Is all part and parcel of your teenage years

Tonight my assignment's to steal a stop sign
It's not really a crime, I'm just freeing the streets
Tonight I will gaze at the stars, be amazed at how far
Far away they all are, gee I'm deep

I've got the fingers of one hand wrapped round
The handle of a coffee mug of warm Southern Comfort
And the fingers of the other hand struggling with the bra strap of a
Young girl called Sharlene who said she was 16
She looks more like 12, but then who gives a toss?
Cos undoing training brassieres
Is one of the pleasure of your teenage years

The guy sitting next to me's offering me LSD
I try my best to be funky but firm
I tell him "not for me, I've just had KFC,
I never mix Chicken with hallucinogens"

I've got the fingers of one hand stroking the hair
Of a girl with a faulty gag reflex
And the fingers of the other hand struggling with the wrapper
Of a strawberry flavoured novelty condom
I never realized vaginas could taste
But learning to use all the gear
Is one of the missions of your teenage years

Looking out across the Swan, glistening in the rising sun
I have got the whole goddamn world at my feet

In the beauty of the day-break I can't help but contemplate
The nature of my maths project due in next week

I've got the fingers of one hand pressed to
The pulse of the heartbeat of my generation
And the fingers of the other hand wrapped ‘round the shaft
Of the pulsating knob of my teenage pretension
If I don't write a poem, I'm going to explode
But masturbatory ideas
Are hard to repress during your teenage years

I'm sneaking home again
Pedalling through the mist of a light morning rain
Like a bird flying back to it's cage
I'm stuck in what seems an eternal teenage

I ride towards the rising sun
As free as the lyrics of Jim Morrison
I'll be back in bed by six o'clock
There'll be plenty of time to dash one off the wrist
Before Dad comes to wakes me up
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