@ALBUM: underwraps
@SONG: LAP OF LUXURY
 
The money won't last forever --
	rent man called twice today.
I hope some day you'll find me
	in the Lap of Luxury.

Searched for a new apartment
	but they don't grow on trees.
Just want to lay my head
	in the Lap of Luxury.

Stepped out on a new horizon --
	felt a new spring in my feet.
Found a job, it could set me up
	dangling in the Lap of Luxury.

And the gaffer is a man of substance --
	drives a Jag and takes high tea.
Lives beyond the industrial wasteland,
	laughing in the Lap of Luxury.

I need money, now, to soothe my heart!

Buy me a Datsun or Toyota --
	get the tax man to agree
	all expenses I can muster
	from the Lap of Luxury.

@SONG: UNDER WRAPS
 
Keep it quiet -- (Go slow.)
Circulate. Need to know.
Stamp the date upon your file --
	masquerade, but well worth while.

Wrapped in the warmth of you --
	wrapped up in your smile.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.

Wear an air -- (keep mum)
	of casual indifference.
Careful how you go
	about your usual business.

Wrapped in daydreams of you --
	wrapped up by your eyes.
Wrapped in the folds of your attention.
Under Wraps! I've got you under wraps.

Tell you when -- (not yet)
	soon the great unveiling.
Bless my boots! Upon my soul!
Secrecy, it is my failing.

Wrapped in your summer night --
	wrapped in your Autumn leaves.
Wrapped in the Winter of your sleeping.

@SONG: EUROPEAN LEGACY
 
She smiles at me
	from beyond the eastern sea-shore.
Flashing jewelled eyes,
	she hoists her skirts so high.
Nouvelle cuisine or an oyster bar --
	it's really up to her.
I'll write every cheque she brings to me.
She shoots on sight --
	it's her European Legacy.

Round the castle walls --
	about the Highlands and the Islands
	the faint reminders stand.
Visitors who took a hand
	a thousand years ago, or so --
	stranded high and dry by tides --
	washed up a new identity.
The channel's wide --
	but it's their European legacy.

I strain my eyes
	against the southern light advancing.
On whiter cliffs I'm high.
The sea birds roll and tumble as they fly.
I hear distant mainland music echo
	in my island ears.
My feet begin to move instinctively
	to the warmer beat of my European
Legacy.

@SONG: LATER, THAT SAME EVENING
 
Later, that same evening, she ran.
I think she ran alone.
Later, she had early warning from
	a hidden phone.
Checked with the embassy --
	she might have been
	a million miles away.
Should I circulate her likeness
	at all airports without delay?
It was later --
	Later, that same evening.

Earlier, we had had a drink or four
	in some Kensington hotel.
Hard -- It was hard to keep my mind
	on what she had to sell.
And with all business done
	we took a cab --
	should it be her place or mine?
Good security prevailed
	and I was home just after nine.
It was later --
	Later, that same evening.

Now I want you back.
Yes, they want you back.
We want you back.
My country wants you back.

Later, in the wee small hours
	there was heavy traffic on the radio.
Scare, at a channel port --
	small craft warnings to keep to shore.
Lobstermen thought they saw
	a submarine
	half submerged suspiciously.
'Though I arrived too late.
	I'm sure she blew a kiss to me
	as the sub sailed out to sea.

@SONG: SABOTEUR
 
In and out of shady places --
	walking on cold corners of the maze.
Following the trace you leave unwittingly.
	I wanna be no Saboteur.
Oh, no, me no Saboteur.

Painted ducks across your landscape --
	happy in your domesticity (It don't
	come free).
Misfortune, like a Sparrow Hawk, hangs
	over you.
Wanna be no Saboteur.

Deepest regrets I humbly offer you
	as I cut into your life.
With clean precision, all is simplified --
	pass the hat and pass the knife.

By now you must be worried, wondering
	who is me and what lies behind my art.
I'm only removing broken sea-shells from
	the beach --
Oh, no, me no Saboteur.

There's at least one of me inside
	your ranks
	in your factory or school.
I anticipate a cleansing opportunity
	to take the horns by the bull.

History forever writing
	pages to be cut or painted grey,
	or celebrated like Jesus in his
		temple rage
	as he chased the money-men away.

I wanna be no Saboteur.
Be no, be no Saboteur.

@SONG: RADIO FREE MOSCOW
 
Tune into messages
	from the Eastern avenue.
Lock on to the ether --
	squeeze the signal through and through.
War of the air-waves
	making scare-waves.
I'm getting pictures
	from my radio.
Moscow Radio.

Voice of America --
	symbol of the free.
Mine of disinformation
	pleading sympathy.
Down in the cold-war games
	forever naming names.
I'm getting pictures
	from my Radio (Free Moscow).
Keep getting pictures
	from my Radio (Free Moscow).

I put my headphones on --
	reach out on the beam.
Shutter up the windows --
	I'm getting up some steam.
Somebody's at the door
	catching me in the act --
	they've been keeping the score.
I'm getting pictures
	from my Radio (Free Moscow).
Yes, I'm getting pictures
	from my Radio (Free Moscow).

@SONG: ASTRONOMY
 
The middle lane has trapped my car
	in red-light claustrophobia.
I slip the shackles, cut the rope--
	stand naked with a telescope
	as the cat walks alone
	under a big sky.
Against the dark so thin and white--
	gonna be a big sky night.

Miss Galileo, come with me
	and view the new Astronomy.
Black hole dressing on salad plate--
	Quasar at the kissing gate.
Now the cat, he walks alone
	under a big sky.
Umbrella dome pin-pricked in lights--
	gonna be a big sky night.

My spectacles, my white lab coat--
	my coffee, thermos and my notes.
I pat my pocket. I got the keys
	to the secrets of the observatory.
And closing the door,
	I feel a new dawn
	as the darker slides align--
	you to yours and me to mine.

And now you stand, assisting me--
	I can touch what I can see, see, see.
I look in wonder, I feel no shame--
	see the consequences of the game.
Expand my universe.
Head for the Big Bang.
Reach for my switch and shout--
	gonna turn the big sky out.

There's got to be astronomy.
Astronomy.

@SONG: TUNDRA
 
Short Arctic desert day --
	and someone left their snow-shoes in
the Tundra.
Look around every which way
	but I can't see just where the footprints
go.

Is it a casual disappearance? --
	plucked from the middle atmosphere
	like straw wind-blown.
No speck on the horizon --
	no simple message scrawled
	upon the snow.

Unearthly visitation --
	someone left their snow-shoes in the
Tundra.
Hungry buzzard flier
	circling round and round
	rattling death's tambourine.

Have to run it down the cold wire --
	late insertion in tomorrow's lost and
found.
Should I spread out searching? --
	but I'm a little thin upon the ground.

So I raise my lips to coax
	the last drop of brandy from the bottle.
Rest my feet and contemplate
	the mystery that's haunting
	this Siberian space.

Show-shoes they bind me down --
	I'm just one more parasite of the surface
layer.
I begin to get the feeling
	I've been on this stage before
	and I'm the only player.

One more Arctic desert day --
	another set of shoes out in the Tundra
snow.
I make my fade to white-out
	and you can't see me where my foot-
prints go.

@SONG: NOBODY'S CAR
 
Black Volga following me --
	Nobody's Car.
Mr. No-one at the wheel of
	Nobody's Car.
Wet pavements, thin apartments --
	quiet dissent from darkened doorways.
I want out alive.
Speak up for me if you can.
So, careful how you drive
	in tourist city.

Slap in front of my hotel --
	it's Nobody's Car.
Is that my limousine?
No, it's Nobody's Car.
Are you on routine assignment?
Plastic shades on black-browed eye-hole.
I read this book before.
I even saw the film.
How did the ending go?
(Intourist city.)

Black out.

It's a weird scenario
	I've seen a thousand times before
	but only on the video.

Feel my steps quick in the headlights
	of Nobody's Car.
Down cobbled alley with no exit from
	Nobody's Car.
Doors slam, two figures silhouette --
	somewhere before, I feel we've met.
Can't tell you anymore.
I agreed to go along
	with all they asked of me.
Intourist city.

I drive Nobody's Car.

@SONG: HEAT
 
When the rats are running
	and the boys are gunning
	for heads on a tin plate --
	you can hear the footfall
softly in the back yard.
And the black jack is called
	face up on the last card.

You'd better call your witness
	in your dirty business.
Trop tard sera le cri.
Better run while you can --
	better set the tall sail.
Better make deep cover
	before the boys have you nailed.

There's just one chance to get away --
	I'll catch up with you another day.
I'll close my eyes and count to ten
	and come right after you again.

Grab your credit cards --
	cash in on your resources.
Take your passport from the drawer,
	don't stop to change the horses.

Get out of the Heat.

Now can you feel the pressure?
Have you got the measure
	of being a wanted man?
Cold drink in your hand --
	hot sweat on your brow.
And there's no understanding
	going to help you now.

Notify all parties
	of an earlier vacation.
No use trying to board the train
	after it's left the station.

Get out of the Heat.

@SONG: PAPARAZZI
 
Paparazzi, can't make the man.
Paparazzi, can't break the man.

Next to the transit lounge
	see the Paparazzi tears.
No-one came today
	from Boston or Tangiers.
And in departures -- only
	faceless trippers trip,
	loaded with duty free
	held in white knuckle grip.

Snap it up, flash away --
	steal a camel for a day.
Break the story in heavy type --
	the news is running late tonight.

Be-decked with Nikon necklaces
	hear the Paparazzi cries.
Under their noses walk
	the famous in disguise.
Conspicuously huddled there
	but no-one stops to look.
They've got their crayons out
	to colour in the book.

Snap it up, flash away --
	steal a camel for a day.
Break the story in heavy type --
	Paparazzi won't be home tonight.

Paparazzi -- write it down.
Paparazzi -- turn it around.
Paparazzi -- take it, fake it,
	break it.
'cos it's a story.

Now someone's cut the lines
	communication's down.
All photo film is fogged.
Celebrities surround
	and jab their fingers at me.
They kiss but I can't tell.
Even poor Paparazzi
	must have privacy as well.

@SONG: APOGEE
 
Sailing round the true-blue sphere--
	is it too late to bale out of here?
Well, there has to be some better way
	to turn back the night,
	spin on to yesterday.

The old man and his crew--
	after all these years,
	it's Apogee.
Pilot training and remorse--
	spirit friends fly too,
	at Apogee.
Apogee-- solar bright
Apogee-- through the night
Apogee-- overground
Don't think I'll be coming down.

Screened for a stable mate
	with nerves of ice we flew,
	at Apogee.
No creativity allowed
	to pass throgh stainless veins of steel,
	at Apogee.
Apogee-- put the kettle on
Tight-lipped-- soldier on
High point-- communicate
Don't forget to urinate.

So glad they put this window in.
How to explain, how to begin?
See! Tennyson and Wordsworth there
	waiting for me in the cold, thin air.

Beware a host of unearthly daffodils
	drifting golden, turned up loud.
Tell the boys back home,
	I'm gonna get some.

The Wrong Stuff's loose in here--
	I'm climbing up the walls,
	at Apogee.
So hoist the skull and bones--
	death and glory's free,
	at Apogee.

A stranger wind, a solar breeze--
	I'm walking out upon the starry seas.
See pyramids, see standing stones--
	pink cotton undies and blue telephones.

Goodbye, cruel world that was my home--
	there's cleaner space out here to roam.
Put my feet up on the moons of mars--
	sit back, relax and count the stars.

@SONG: AUTOMOTIVE ENGINEERING
 
In the hands of science --
	the complete appliance.
We're moved to motor.
We're moved to motor.
Do you fly a Spitfire?
Do you slide on a tea-tray?
Or walk on a short trip (Sundays).
Or drive come what may (enjoy).

Automotive science and engineering.

When big was better --
	and fast was chic,
	the oil was cheaper --
	now we're up the creek.
But the Japs are coming
	and everyone's turbo'd
	and carbon fibre
	is the way to go, go.

Down at the robot factory
	things are humming.
New radical suspension --
	no humans testing.
(Wind it up, wind it up.)
Take a trip
	in your Freudian slip.
Doctor Ferdinand (Ferdie)
	has you in his grip.

@SONG: GENERAL CROSSING
 
It's an old profession
	of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing --
	button out, button in.

The tall General will mine
	a few bridges tonight,
	stroking soft machinery.
Fanfare at dawn
	courting green steel
	lined up for World War One
	(Two, Three, Four).

It's an old profession
	of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing
	on a landscape with no tree.

The tall General points
	to the distance --
	disconnects his power supply.
Writes a stiff note to his nearest
	and dearest --
	he takes the battle plan
	and contemplates his fly.

The tall General
	flies by the seat of history.
The tall General
	is crossing.
The tall General
	he thinks inevitability.
The tall General
	is definitely crossing.

With spit and with polish --
	time for desperate measures.
The pain in the forehead
	from holding up to the pressures
	of life on the rim
	of the convenient alliance.
Out on the rim --
	let me out in the rim.

The tall General will walk
	across the compound
	with his briefcase and I.D.
Later they'll post him
	seemingly missing --