APPLES / BYLINE BROWNE

(written by Dury and Gallagher / Dury and Gallagher)

RELEASED IN OCTOBER 1989

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APPLES


Delilah the dancer from Soho
Was making her way down the lane
Simpson from Harrow
Had fruit on his barrow
He sold it for love and for gain

Simpson said, "Hello, young Norman"
"My Pippins are lovely today"
"Don't be suspicious"
"Of Golden Delicious"
"Whatever your granny might say"

There only apples - red and green
Apples - lovely ripe and juicy and especially for you
Right off me barra, me old cock sparra
Apples - red and green

Delilah the dancer from Soho
Took ages to make up her mind
Simpson said, "Madam,"
"You'd know if you'd 'ad 'em"
"That these are the very best kind"

"This is the pick of the orchard"
"Forgive me a figure of speech"
"But apples like these here"
"Just don't grow on trees, dear"
"And this one is really a peach"

There only apples - red and green
Apples - lovely ripe and juicy and especially for you
Right off my barra my old cock sparra
Apples - red and green

Simpson picked out a green apple
He polished it up on his sleeve
He said, "Do me a favour"
"And savour the flavour"
"Of what you're about to receive"

Delilah the dancer from Soho
Accepted his gift with a smile
She said, "It looks like a good 'un"
"It'll do for my pudden"
"I'll get round to it after a while"

There only apples - red and green
Apples - lovely ripe and juicy and especially for you
Right off my barra, my old cock sparra
Apples - red and green

 

BYLINE BROWNE

 

I'm here to find out what makes you tick
I'm here to discover the secret you
I intend to reveal you're crooked and sick
I don't give a damn if none of it's true

There's a Byline Browne from the national press
That is how I earn my wages
I bring exposure and distress
As I spread your guts across the centre pages

I'm here to solicit your innermost thoughts
I'm fuelled by jealousy, venom and drink
I poke in your dustbins and I lurk round the courts
I puke up your portrait in bright yellow ink

There's a Byline Browne of the popular press
The man who bought you babies for sale
I'll blackmail your neighbour and look up your dress
But come what may I'll tell my tale

I cover each item as issues arise
With a stain on the fabric of tissue of lies
I fuck up your family, your future and friends
And I'll see you in hell before my story ends

I'm a reporter with senses and hunches
Somebody's daughter's turned into a junkie
I'm a reporter with expenses and lunches
And a whiskey and water, and I don't give a monkey's

 

Copyright details - All copyright details are given on the album lyric pages and these songs can be found on the album

APPLES - Just click here to go to that page

 

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