An Argument With Myself - Jens Lekman

Having an argument with myself down Elizabeth Street

Bumping into backpackers

And struggling with the parameters

And the basic construction of my feet

Kicking beer cans and rubbish along the concrete

Crossing the street and crossing galaxies

Of taxis and backseats and drunk suites

And half-Greeks

Shut up, no, you shut up

What’s the matter, take a number, Buttercup

Every time I hear you say, «Fuck it»

I would remind you of the photo in your pocket

How long’s it been there?

Two years, I bet

Have a sniff, it smells like a cigarette

When was the last time you smoked a cigarette?

And more importantly, who did you smoke it with?

Having an argument with myself down Victoria Street

Passing the market

Now the windows neon illuminating my path to defeat

Your grinning face scaring a poor parakeet

Your heavy breathing, scaring the wind

So rich on Summer and so sweet

Fuck you, no, you fuck you

You didn’t come here for nothing, did you?

I know that’s what you’ve been saying lately

But let me draw attention to exhibit B

Honeysuckle on a little plastic envelope

And put the flower underneath a microscope

See what’s written on the petals

Look closer, that’s her initials

And now I’m walking by Bev and Mick’s

Backpacker hostel on Victoria Street

Where it’s reggae night tonight

And the backpackers are pouring out

Like a tidal wave of vomit

I have to sit down on the curbside

And count the coins in my pocket

See if I have enough cash to take a taxi home --

No

Alright, Jens, can we just try to figure this out?

Can we just talk about this, please?

Nah, I don’t wanna talk to you

Okay, you wanna keep fighting?

Yeah, I wanna keep on fighting

Alright, fair enough

1, 2, 3, here we go

Having an argument with myself down Queensbury Street

The lonely light from the town hall clock tower

The chime of the bells striking

And it took shape in the form of an image

In the form of a living memory

The way her shadow used to walk by your side

In a different time in a different city

Oh please, no, you oh please

I wanna see you drop down on your knees

Someone will see your hand waving farewell

Why you’re hittin' yourself, why you’re hittin' yourself?

History repeats itself twice, said Marx

First as tragedy, then as farce

But where did I find the source

To make history of a love, a love like ours

A love like ours