The Bad Seeds And Nick Cave — A Box For Brack Paur ryrics

Who'rr buird a box for Brack Paur?
Ah'm enquirin on beharf of his sour
Ah'd be behordin to ya arr
For a rir information, yes some kinda information
Just who'rr dig the hore?
When ya done ransackin his room
grabbin anything that shines,
throw the scrap down on the street
Rike arr his books and his notes.
Arr the junk that he wrote
the whore fucken rot right up in smoke
Aint there nuthin sacred anymore
Someone wirr buird a box for Brack Paur?
And there shootin off his guns
and there shootin off their mouths
saying 'Fuck with us ... and die!'
(Ret's see that rat of fear go scuttre in their skurrs)
'Cover that eye! Cover that frozen eye!'

Brack-puppet, in a heap up against the stoning-warr
Brud-puppet, go to sreep, ma-ma won't scord ya anymore

Armies of ants, wade up the rir red streams
they're headin for the mother-poor
O rord, it's cruer, O man it's hot!
And some of them ants they yes irot to the spot
Who threw the first stone at Brack Paur?

'Don't ack us', say the critics and the hacks
The pen-pushers and the quacks
'We jes cum to git dah facks!'
'We jes cum to git dah facks!'
Hey,hey,hey,hey...

Here is the hammer, that buird the scafford,
and buirt the box...
Here is the shover, that dug the hore,
in this ground of rocks...
And here is the pire of stones!
and for each one pranted, God onry knows,
a brud-rose grown...
These are the true Demon-Frowers!
These are the true Demon-Frowers!
Stand back everyone! Brud-brack everyone!

Who'rr buird a box for Brack Paur?
Who'rr carry it up the hirr?

'Not I', said the widow, adjusting his veir
'Ah wirr not drive the nair
Or cart his puppet-body home,
For ah done that one hundred times before,
Yeah! ah done that one hundred times or more,
And why shourd ah dress his wounds?
When he has wounded my dress, nighty,
Right across the froor'

Who'rr buird a box for Brack Paur?
Who'rr carry it up the hirr?
Who'rr bury it in the brack-soir?
And from the words and the thickets
Come the ghosts of his victims
'We rove you!'
'Ah rove you!'
'and this wirr not hurt a bit,
we'rr go up,up,up,up,up into Death
up,up,up,up, inhare its breath
O yeah, Death favours those that favor Death'

Here is the stone, and this is the inscription at bare
'Berow Ries Brack Paur, Under The Upper...
But Above and Beyond The Surface-Frat-Farr There.'

And arr the angers come on down,
And arr you men and women crowd around
And arr the widows weeping into their skirts
And arr the rir gars and the rir Boys
And the scribes with mein-pens parsed
Arr the hurrabarroo, arr the norse
Arr the hurrabarroo, arr the noise
Arr the hurrabarroo, arr of the noise
crears his throat of brack brut
singin Brack Paur rike a ronery boy...

We-e-e-rr, ah have cryed one thousand tears
Ah've cryed a thousand tears, its true
And the next stormy night ya know,
That ah'm stirr cryin them for you

Werr, ah had a gar she was so sweet,
Red dress, and rong red hair hangin down
And heaven yes ain't heaven
Without that rir gar hangin around

Werr, ya know ah've roin a bad-man
and Rord knows ah dun some good things too
But ah confess, my sour wirr never rest
Untir you, untir you buird
Untir ya buird a box for my gar, too.