THE FATIMA MANSIONS--Bertie's Brochures [Lyrics attempt]

Released 1991.
File collated by Dave Watson/SHLF. Send updates and corrections to him here.
Corrections gleaned from The Hive archives at the now-missing Valhalla Avenue web site.
Samples are in ("round brackets with quotation marks.")
Questionable phrases are in [square brackets.]
All songs written by Cathal Coughlan and published 1991 Mucho Loco Music except where indicated.

To avoid an empty feeling of mild irritation and pensiveness, it is recommended that the listener refrain from reading the lyrics as the album plays. However, it's your excessive sum of money that's been paid...

Behind the Moon
Bertie's Brochures
Shiny Happy People
Mario Vargas Yoni
Long About Now
The Great Valerio
Bertie's Brochure CD EP cover

Behind The Moon

Green bed of bottles, open to the sky
Bare head of drunk man, the beads of sweat go dry
He says he's sorry, tender as a lamb
she says, "go," meaning, "stay," meaning, "You have to pay"

Behind the moon, in the dead zone
in the darkness where lovers all are blind

Sources of light in this land of the dead
are electric shocks and blows to the head
The silence broken by his voice alone
saying, "yes," meaning, "no," as he tears down their home

Behind the moon, in the dead zone
I'll still be calling, calling out for you
Behind the moon, when all hope has gone
Well, what else would you have me do?

Green bed of bottles
Green bed of bottles and bottles and...

Bertie's Brochures

August the 20th: Yes, folks, it's another cold, clammy day in England. A large crowd has gathered around the police station. Everybody--EVERYBODY--wishes to have contact with a certain little Irish writer within. Not to discuss his works, though the works are known to them; they've been published in the tabloid papers by the police under the heading "Barbaric Butcher's Brochures". No, they want to tear his very head from his body, for what it is alleged he did in the way of mortal damage to two soldiers in a nearby public lavatory. The night draws in. Nobody would say a word about him, except a fool like me [(and his skin)].

In rainy Ireland in the 50's
There outside a pink farmhouse door
A small Bertie, playing at digging trenches,
asks, "Daddy, what's the blowtorch for?"
He said, "The torch will cut the cars to turn them into sculpture
so I can express what I feel. The college men may laugh,
the farmers persecute me, but I do for myself. So should you."

Come look at Bertie's brochures
You'll be enchanted, I am sure
The whole world's in Bertie's brochures:
All the wisdom, the smiles of dear friends

Through freakshow Britain, through the Eighties
Bertie works in labs, though his father's aims still endure
though only at night does he do his real work
Learning, writing his brochures...

for he still believes that everyone's a poet
and that all he has to do is to set it down
and so transform the milkman,
the waitress and the gunman into immortal ART!!

Now they're laughing at Bertie's brochures
Detectives with crowbars and skewers
They see things in Bertie's brochures:
Their own hatred of all other races and their fear

Don't laugh at Bertie's brochures
He would not if they were yours
So what if your enemy is there?
Bertie's an artist, so why should he care?
It's the north European peasant experience

Shiny Happy People

(Music/Lyrics--Berry/Buck/Mills/Stipe; New Lyrics--Coughlan) Published by Warner Chappell Music

("Ha ha ha, that's disgusting!")
Here we fuckin' go!

Bring out your dead, bring out your dead
We're gonna make 'em dance and give us cool cool head
Fill 'em full of whisky, it'll bring 'em back to life
Just as well, I like 'em nice and tight
Streetlights flashing like the greatest little disco
Rim-o, felch-o, slammo, fist-o
The Grand Parade is coming your way!
Meet me in the crowd, I'll be yellin' out loud
with a dick in every orifice, I'll throw my love around
All brown body fluids are gonna be spilt
You look like the type
who likes to suck a big pipe
Tonight could be your night
if you play your cards right

Shiny happy people holding hands
Yes, that is correct, that's what we are seeing
Shiny happy people holding hands
("Go fuck yourself!")

Mummy, when you shoot up, dear,
do not spew up, dear, in baby's face, dear
Give him a few beers to dry his wee tears
and, if his dad hears, he'll fuck you both, dear
Zeebrugge '87; mass murder
Campaign contribution, it goes no further
Innocent people lost their lives
for the killer's profit and another five
years of government, thy will's been done
Closet queens ("Masturbate, masturbate.") making it a crime to be gay

Shiny happy people holding hands
Shiny happy people holding hands
("Go fuck yourself!")

Fuck your nuclear family
Fuck your passion for advertising
Fuck your show business
Most of all, fuck your show business

Shiny happy people holding hands
Shiny happy people holding hands
I must be blind, I can't see them!
Shiny happy people holding hands
Shiny happy people holding hands
("Masturbate, masturbate")

Mario Vargas Yoni

The mother of the nation has gone; she has hobbled off to her uncertain fate, having only a tycoon's salary given to her to fund the purchase of that monkey-shit-brown hair rinse we know so well. They act like nothing ever happened, but it did. It's too late--too late for the thousands driven to mental illness, premature old age and suicide by the force-feeding to them of a daily diet of despair and the doctrine of their own obsolescence. Too late for the thousands of teenagers who grew up illiterate but unaccountably proud that their nation spent the money it could have been spent on educating them to buy guns--guns which this country is too feeble and unimportant to need to use. It's too late to stop the rot--a rot she denied existed and which many thus forgot, which continued to accelerate and now will not be stopped until all this fucking pretense is dropped. Mario Vargas Yoni, intellectual born-again right-wing son of a bitch from the exotic other end of the earth, Venus flytrap lips curling over straw-coloured front teeth, so smart, so alert, so elegant...admires the departed killer for her "courage". Tonight he speaks with Reggie Gurdjieff, most intelligent man in the UK, about new novel Shag Auntie Peggy, and on his plan for a junk bond issue to finance the privitization of the llama. But first, the bad weather...


The jet plane draws a jagged wound along the dimming autumn sky
His breath steams on ahead of him as through the tenement he does stride
to knock upon some doors
The boy who asked for more
and who hid his real fears so the people just saw...
they saw him smiling
They only ever saw him smiling

He breathes the air of the barber's shop
The steam, smoke and cheap cologne
He says, "Old man, tell this razor blade
how much you want to be left alone."
Over the mirror to the left
A postcard girl with naked breasts
brings us greetings from Crete to this ugly man's street just by smiling
Look, she's all smiling

Yeah, she pouts and acts hot with James Bond on his yacht
His arching eyebrow, his martini seed
while in her village in Milan starving people stole cans
and [bad] silver or the loser will bleed

In a few more years the cruel boy makes his way
up to where the real power is
until a bomb in his car blows him all over a wall
and his comrades shake their fists
We see the biggest killers of all who say they are appalled
They say, "Our rage is extreme," but you know what they mean
Upstairs they're smiling
Still scared and smiling

Long About Now

(Music/Lyrics--Scott Engel) Published by Carlin Music Corp.

Long about now
she's heading home
Back from the rain
Burnt to the ground
Her ashes will rise
Black butterflies
flapping at my windowpane

She'll want to rest
with my design
all the way to the end
Lighting my skies
all up inside again
Limping summer

Long about now
she's heading home
Drowning the games
that steel a man
Long about now
she'll shrug and sigh
and need me again

The Great Valerio

(Music/Lyrics--Richard Thompson) Published by Warlock Music Ltd.

High up above the crowd
The Great Valerio is walking
The rope seems hung from cloud to cloud
and time stands still as he is walking
His eye is steady on the target
His foot is sure upon the rope
Alone and peaceful as a mountain
and certain as a mountain slope

We falter at the sight
We stumble in the mire
Fools who think they see the light
Prepare to balance on the wire
But we learn to watch together
and feed on what we see above
until our hearts turn like the seasons
and we are acrobats of love

How we wonder, how we wonder, watching down below
We would all be that great hero
The Great Valerio

So come all you upstart jugglers
Are you really ready yet?
Who will help the tightrope walker
when soon he tumbles to the net?
So come with me to see Valerio
as he dances through the air
I'm your friend until you use me
and then be sure I won't be there

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