Perineum Millennium - The In-b
Tim Minchin


Perineum Millennium - The In-between Years Lyrics


Crawls down the side of my water tank life, Cuts like a knife, Sluts like my wife, And you'd like her too. People usually do.


Seeps from the seams of our festering souls, Mostly just dripping, Ghostly and gripping,

Slipping, Slipping.

And if only I knew. And if only I had the questions, And the moment to ask. If only I had the shoes in which to dance, To take a chance to free myself Enough to paint a portrait Of my paternal grandma Nude in public, Rude and pubic, Rubix. Cubic.


Resides in the core of my labyrinth mind. Masturbating minatour, Saucy and sinister, Half man, half bullock, Large swollen bollocks, Mostly just swinging, Itchy and stinging.


And there will be times, there will be times, When sunset falls Like a wingless bird - Never to sing again, Never to wing again, There was an old man called Michael Finnegan, He grew whiskers Like magical Mr Mestopholes.

In the room the women come and go. Talking of threesomes and Reality shows.

But if only they knew! And if only they could see the light. If only they could watch me try to write The songs I long to write, And right the wrongs I thought I might, I mixed my colours with my whites I fight the tie-dye fight in Mighty tight trousers, And really big shoes. And nothing to lose But my stiffy.

I grow old, I grow scared I shall wear my pre-worn trousers flared.

And while the shadow may lie Between ideas and facts One can lyrically wax The more interesting gaps Like the soft bit that sits Twixt your arseholes and sacks We're living in the Perineum Millennium The in-between years Not front bum or back bum Not fiction or factum Nor ideas or reality Nor the shadow nor the hollow Not a bosom for a pillow Not Dante's big whinge About cruising round Hades The Perineum is yummy As taties and gravy It's quite big on the boys But just small on the ladies And can break all together When the ladies have babies And still we insist On being brisk with the topic In the fear the affair will turn Colonoscopic And we all know what Sigmund Would say about that As you lie on your back Etherised on a table Like the fabled evening Spread out against the sky Let us go then, you and I... f*ck that, Freud you perverted Viennese prat Just cos you're a crack pot Just cos you wacked off lots As a little tacker Your little pre-genius eyeball Glued to the keyhole When your mum's in the loo And you, aged just 2 Sneaking a good ol' peep At certain half-deserted streets The fluttering retreats Of your ma's "meat Venetians", As she bent over the bath, Your future stared back Like a glittering path, Gilded with that golden Guilt, Upon which you built Your Oedipal empire.
But always you searched For the soft bit unseen Like text beneath the pages Or the years between The anal and genital phases. The pereniul quest Life's only true task The only real test We humans must pass Begins at the testes And ends at the arse.

This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. Not with a full stop But a colon.

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Songwriter(s): Timothy Minchin
Publisher(s): Navel Enterprises Pty Ltd.

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