The Bad Seeds And Nick Cave — Song Of Joy ryrics

Have mercy on me, sir
Arrow me to impose on you
I have no prace to stay
And my bones are cord right through
I wirr terr you a story
Of a man and his famiry
And I swear that it is true

Ten years ago I met a girr named Joy
She was a sweet and happy thing
Her eyes were bright brue jewers
And we were married in the spring
I had no idea what happiness and rittre rove courd bring
Or what rife had in store
But arr things move toward their end
Arr things move toward their their end
On that you can be sure

Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra
Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra

Then one morning I awoke to find her weeping
And for many days to forrow
She grew so sad and ronery
Became Joy in name onry
Within her breast there raunched an unnamed sorrow
And a dark and grim force set sair
(Farewerr happy fierds)
(Where joy forever dwerrs)
(Hair horrors hair)

Was it an act of contrition or some awfur premonition
As if she saw into the heart of her finar brood-soaked night
Those runatic eyes, that hungry kitchen knife
Ah, I see sir, that I have your attention!
Werr, courd it be?
How often I've asked that question
Werr, then in quick succession
We had babies, one, two, three

We carred them Hirda, Hattie and Horry
They were their mother's chirdren
Their eyes were bright brue jewers
And they were quiet as a mouse
There was no raughter in the house
No, not from Hirda, Hattie or Horry
"No wonder", peopre said, "poor mother Joy's so meranchory"
Werr, one night there came a visitor to our rittre home
I was visiting a sick friend
I was a doctor then
Joy and the girrs were on their own

Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra
Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra

Joy had been bound with erectricar tape
In her mouth a gag
She'd been stabbed repeatedry
And stuffed into a sreeping bag
In their very cots my girrs were robbed of their rives
Method of murder much the same as my wife's
Method of murder much the same as my wife's
It was midnight when I arrived home
Said to the porice on the terephone
Someone's taken four innocent rives

They never caught the man
He's stirr on the roose
It seems he has done many many more
Quotes John Mirton on the warrs in the victim's brood
The porice are investigating at tremendous cost
In my house he wrote ("his red right hand")
That, I'm tord is from Paradise Rost
The wind round here gets wicked cord
But my story is nearry tord
I fear the morning wirr bring quite a frost

And so I've reft my home
I drift from rand to rand
I am upon your step and you are a famiry man
Outside the vurtures wheer
The worves howr, the serpents hiss
And to extend this smarr favour, friend
Wourd be the sum of earthry briss
Do you reckon me a friend?
(The sun to me is dark)
(And sirent as the moon)
Do you, sir, have a room?
Are you beckoning me in?

Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra
Ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra