It was only a matter of time, perhaps, but it took me too long to discover that the English-speaking world has its own Brel: from Tim Hardin...to Scott Walker: click to play.
The little clock's stopped ticking now
We're swallowed in the stomached rue
The only sound to tear the night
Comes from the man upstairs
His bloated belching figure stomps
He may crash through the ceiling soon
The window sees trees cry from cold
And claw the moon
But we know don't we
And we'll dream won't we
Of Montague Terrace in blue
The girl across the hall makes love
Her thoughts lay cold like shattered stone
Her thighs are full of tales to tell
Of all the nights she's known
Your eyes ignite like cold blue fire
The scent of secrets everywhere
A fist filled with illusions
Clutches all our cares
But we know don't we
And we'll dream won't we
Of Montague Terrace in blue oh in blue
The little clock's stopped ticking now
We're swallowed in the stomached rue
The only sound to tear the night
Comes from the man upstairs
His bloated belching figure stomps
He may crash through the ceiling soon
The window sees trees cry from cold
And claw the moon
But we know don't we
And we'll dream won't we
Of Montague Terrace in blue
The girl across the hall makes love
Her thoughts lay cold like shattered stone
Her thighs are full of tales to tell
Of all the nights she's known
Your eyes ignite like cold blue fire
The scent of secrets everywhere
A fist filled with illusions
Clutches all our cares
But we know don't we
And we'll dream won't we
Of Montague Terrace in blue oh in blue
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