Head to the sea All fit to pay The radio is pushing cultural decay You've earned your bread Fat on the beach There's lots of fishing here But nothing safe to eat All this obsession on what's perfect Dresses with the patterns from the curtains I'll drink to hell A bloated wreck A whiskey holster flask A GBV cassette So let's assume There won't be a mess The crooked money men Will always hedge their bets All this agreement on what's certain No one can peek behind the curtain We're far from the safety of the mainland A gold star swimmer in the deep end