You Sound Like Louis Burdett by Whitlams
You Sound Like Louis Burdett lyrics
Had a little bit to drink.
There's a little thing I want to do out East.
Nothing too emotional, my good miss.
I couldn't be serious in a room full of jack-knfe eyes.
Stop talking 'bout the years- you sound like Louis Burdett.
And we roll on to my backshed, play some poker, scratch my head.
Look at the sky and spot the planes, where would I go on holidays?
Roll with the punches, down the aisles, and down the street the weeks
roll by.
I'm chewing ice and grinning, I'm spewing up and singing.
It's billiousness as usual in my corner of the kitchen.
Hey you, lose that friend before we go anywhere.
What? Someone wmight see you alone?
Stop baggin' out the band, 'cause you sound like Louis Burdett.
All my friends are fuck-ups but they're fun to have around, banana
chairs out on the concrete,
telling stories to the stars how Geminis love Wooden Dragons, and how
down the street the weeks roll by.
The moment the night wears off, the bombsite reappears.
They're all asleep but the morning tastes like wine,
It tastes like wine in Tempe.
I feel so good I just might wake him up.
Pat him on th bald head- tell me about a dream Louis, something obscene
Louis, your life's an open magazine Louis.
I'm stoned in a bookshop, sober in a nightclub, sex is everywhere but
nowhere 'round me.
By the time she gets to Marrickville we'll be masturbating.
It never rains in Tempe but the planes remind me of family money and the
lack down here.
Stop talking frustrated, 'cause I sound like Louis Burdett
And we roll on to my backshed, play some poker, scratch my head.
Look at the sky and spot the planes, where would I go on holidays?
Roll with the punches, down the aisles, and down the street the weeks
roll by.
All my friends are fuck-ups but they're fun to have around, banana
chairs out on the concrete,
telling stories to the stars how Geminis love Wooden Dragons, and how
down the street the weeks roll by.
Most of my friends are very fruity indeed, such fun to have around.
Terror, like charity, begins at home.
Chris don't like the madness, but the madness likes him.
He's got a finger in his chest saying how it should have been.
And we roll on to my backshed, play some poker, scratch my head.
Look at the sky and spot the planes, where would I go on holidays?
Roll with the punches, down the aisles, and down the street the weeks
roll by.
My friends are completely fucked but they're such fun to have around.
Banana chairs out on the concrete,
telling stories to the stars how Geminis love Wooden Dragons, and how
down the street the weeks roll by.
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