Dead Finks Don't Talk - Brian Eno

Oh cheeky cheeky

Oh naughty sneaky

You’re so perceptive and I wonder how you knew

But these finks don’t walk too well

A bad sense of direction

And so they stumble round in threes

Such a strange collection

Oh you headless chicken

Can those poor teeth take so much kicking?

You’re always so charming

As you peck your way up there

And these finks don’t dress too well

No discrimination

To be a zombie all the time

Requires such dedication

Oh please sir, will you let it go by

'Cos I failed both tests with my legs both tied

In my place the stuff is all there

I’ve been ever so sad for a very long time

My my they wanted the works, can you this and that

I never got a letter back

More fool me, bless my soul

More fool me, bless my soul

Oh perfect masters

They thrive on disasters

They all look so harmless

Till they find their way up here

But dead finks don’t talk too well

They’ve got a shaky sense of diction

It’s not so much a living hell

It’s just a dying fiction