Brian Eno Dead Finks Don’t Talk

Oh, cheeky cheeky

Oh, naughty sneeky

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 (Oh, no! Oh, no!)

No discrimination (Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!)

To be a zombie all the time (Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!)

Requires such dedication (Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!)

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 for me, bless my soul

More for me, bless my soul

More for me, bless my soul

More for me, bless my soul

More for me, bless my soul

Oh, perfect masters

They thrive on disasters

They all look so harmless

Till they find there way up there

But dead finks don’t talk too well (Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!)

They’ve got a shaky sense of diction (Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!)

It’s not so much a living hell (Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!)

It’s just a dying fiction. (Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!)