TISM


Morrison Hostel Lyrics

Jimbo, boy, you're a crock of shit
You're a boozed selfish thug
Why don't you give your mouth a go
And in the other hole put a plug

By Christ you've got a long, long way
On a schoolboy's talent with words
One crappy bit of symbolism
And you're adored by an army of turds

You're a selfish, rude, arrogant prick
You're basically pretty stupid
You're mysticism's a lump of shit
And so are all the girls you've rooted

So don't talk about being sad and lonely
or f**king misunderstood
'cause underneath that self-pitying phoney
Is a selfish, brutal hood

I support the police that took you off stage
I support the fact you bled
I support the cops who carried you off
I support the fact you're dead

I think that you're a troubled guy
And I think that's nothing new
I think your fans are a bunch of turds
Almost as immature as you

And when I'm in my supermarket
And some prick pushes in front of my trolley
I'll be reminded of your stinking bravado
And I'll ask the cunt to say sorry

Your fans would excuse every rudeness
Just 'cause it comes from you
You'd tell them to go drop dead
And they'd say "oh how true, how true, how true"

You need a nine-to-five job, Jimbo
You need to get to Flinders Street by train
Go and find yourself a regular income
Then you can write a song about pain

Try and save for the kiddie's school fees
Take some care when you drive a car
Put your goddamn rubbish in a bin
You f**king great rock superstar

You have spawned a host of cock-sure shits
That are nearly always filthy rich
And think 'cause they're a little like ol' Jimbo
They can act like stinking pricks

An army of brainless arty youth
They look down upon us common plods
But they barrack for good ol' Morrison
Like the f**king Richmond cheer squad

So when you're listening to Morrisons Hostel
And Jimbo, he's in top form
Whining about this harsh cruel world
And the fact he was ever born

Remember his fans are rapt
And brooding over their suffering lives
And go to discuss it at 'Thrash and Treasure'
At least if daddy will drive

Jimbo. King of the private school kids
The girls from PLC who identify with his tortured soul
'cause they've just dropped boyfriend number three
He was Kent from Xavier College,
In HSC he got an A for English
But between Jimbo and William Blake
He hasn't the f**king brains to distinguish

Jimbo. Father of a generation of private school depression idols
From Nick Cave on they don't kill themselves
Just tell us why they're suicidal
He has made self pity legitimate
It means we'll have to face
One after another, artists with integrity
Like 'REO Speedwagon'.

Sorry, I meant 'Hugo Race'

Well, up your arse, Jimbo ol' man, up your f**king hole
You are a prick. pure and simple.
It's about time you were told
And up your arse to all your fans
Up your arse to your tortured artistic hell
And while we're f**king at it,
Up your arse to Morrissey as well
Up your arse to Robert Smith,
Up your arse to Albert Camus
All those "I'm suffering for my art"-y types
Jimbo, I blame them all on you

And everyone who handles life's pain
With a token of mature self-examination,
It's time these ponces were told to stick it
Up their bogus self-enfatuation

But if you're after true self-indulgence
Then the conclusions still aren't final
'cause if you thought Jim Morisson was a wanker,
Well, Christ, you've just bought this f**king bit of vinyl!

Up Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo
Up Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo
Up Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo
Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo
Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo
Up Jimbo, Jimbo...

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Record Label(s): 1988 Genre B Goode
Official lyrics by

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