My people are salty, water based, big nosed and broad.
My people are professional drinkers, raging with thirst to early graves,
Nightclub whistlers and tinkers, wisecrackers, and dames.
They're the prettiest peaches in town
They're the prettiest peaches in town
My people are movers, travelers Jewish brush makers, trumpet blowers and
Butchers.
My great granddad survived the First World War intact only to be kicked to death by a horse he was trying to steal.
They found him face down in a puddle on the Yorkshire moors, stinking of ale and ferret blood.
My other great granddad had a brush factory in Sheffield but pissed it Up the wall and was dead by 41, keeling over in the bookies after his 15-1 nag came roaring past the line.
They're the prettiest peaches in town
They're the prettiest peaches in town
I'm proud, in a way, of these men, both reckless and mad.
My own dad was a prized pumpkin, the belle of the north.
With a voice like gravel and a heart as big as
Monaco, he tickled his way to the top only to find that,
He preferred it at ground level,
In bedsits and doorways, flicking can tops and rizlas, spitting in the racing post.
But mother, oh mother what eyes you have given me,
What thirst for joy, what wiggly hips and
Low self esteem.
It is you that made me, you that raised this sensitive brute, this six-foot softy,
This wrestler of winds.
She's the prettiest peach in town
She's the prettiest peach in town
They're the prettiest peaches in town
They're the prettiest peaches in town
My people are bright and broken, a tender balance, a twisted trifle.
