Pretty Words歌词

I ask you nicely
Get my face slapped under wraps
What's going on precisely
Is there something wrong perhaps?
Surprise, surprise
(surprise, surprise)
It's more like a booby trap than a booby prize
Civil disobedience
From a soldier with a dirty rifle
You're loosening all the screws
That hold the hinges of my life
Fat cats and army brats
(fat cats and army brats)
Hep cats and dog tag pawing over girly mags
Pretty words don't mean much anymore
I don't mean to be mean much anymore
All I see are snapshots, bigshots, tender spots
Mug shots, machine slots
Till you don't know what's what
You don't know what you got
Curious women
Running after curious men
Curiosity didn't kill the cat
It was a poisoned pen
But there's not much choice
(it's hobson's choice)
Between a cruel mouth and a jealous voice
Got back to London
Picked a paper from the man
No words of consolation
Just cartoons and titter tatter
Well well, fancy that
(well well, fancy that)
Millions murdered for a kiss me quick hat
No backbone, blood and guts
Better keep your big mouth shut
Pretty words don't mean much anymore
I don't mean to be mean much anymore
All I see are snapshots, bigshots, tender spots
Machine slots, mug shots
Till you don't know what's what
You don't know what you got
You don't know what you got
You don't know what you got

I ask you nicely
Get my face slapped under wraps
What's going on precisely
Is there something wrong perhaps?
Surprise, surprise
(surprise, surprise)
It's more like a booby trap than a booby prize
Civil disobedience
From a soldier with a dirty rifle
You're loosening all the screws
That hold the hinges of my life
Fat cats and army brats
(fat cats and army brats)
Hep cats and dog tag pawing over girly mags
Pretty words don't mean much anymore
I don't mean to be mean much anymore
All I see are snapshots, bigshots, tender spots
Mug shots, machine slots
Till you don't know what's what
You don't know what you got
Curious women
Running after curious men
Curiosity didn't kill the cat
It was a poisoned pen
But there's not much choice
(it's hobson's choice)
Between a cruel mouth and a jealous voice
Got back to London
Picked a paper from the man
No words of consolation
Just cartoons and titter tatter
Well well, fancy that
(well well, fancy that)
Millions murdered for a kiss me quick hat
No backbone, blood and guts
Better keep your big mouth shut
Pretty words don't mean much anymore
I don't mean to be mean much anymore
All I see are snapshots, bigshots, tender spots
Machine slots, mug shots
Till you don't know what's what
You don't know what you got
You don't know what you got
You don't know what you got