Betty Won't Wake

by Cement Matters

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03:08

about

'Won't When If You?' and 'Battery Acid' were recorded and mixed by Mitch Mitchener in July 2012, Broadfields Studio, Watford.

'The Observer' was recorded and mixed by our Joey Raymond in his bedroom circa April 2012.

credits

released 03 October 2012

tags

license

all rights reserved

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Track Name: Won't When If You?
Won't you take me from this hold?
I wanna know, I wanna know,
When this feeling will go, Baby I don't know.

When this choir will pause for air,
Will you comb my troubles, will we disappear?
I wanna know, I wanna know,
When this feeling will go, Baby I don't know.

If my whispers dissolve these fears,
I will lose myself beneath your tears.
I wanna know, if you could fill my dismays.

You won't see me, you won't see me.
I'm a liar, a cheat and I won't change my ways,
My ways.
Track Name: Battery Acid
Betty won't wake, nor will she sleep,
Betty won't wake, nor will she sleep.
25 years will cut the skin real deep,
Now the neighbours' complaints will last for weeks.

What was right will now be wrong,
What was mine has long since gone.

I've seen you my dear, you were lost on the way.
And that is where you will stay, that is where you will stay.

Betty won't wake, nor will she sleep,
Betty won't wake, nor will she sleep.
25 years will cut the skin real deep,
She's confined to the lines that will seperate our feed.
Track Name: The Observer
The snake lies low near the river,
In the reeds by the rundown home.
His eyes are sharp like diamonds,
He hunts for the prey that's slow.
Close up, close up, it's gonna be fine real soon.
Pipe down, young man, I have no time for you.

This fate is not for sale,
For you or no one else.
This fate is not for sale,
So drink your own not mine.

He said bury the flame that's burning,
On the hill where the voices meet.
Drain the youth of reason 'til the ageing will sigh and weep.
Breathe in, breathe out, it's gonna be quiet real soon.
No sir, I won't squeeze the land for the slithering few.

This fate is not for sale,
For you or no one else.
This fate is not for sale,
So drink your own not mine.

Dig deeper for the memory of this chainmail hate.
The gangs of concrete hideouts clean their nails with pails of bleach.
Simmer down, for now, begs the wind over yonder way.
Might I, say now, I have no time for you.