Lie

He wondered why she was trying to evade the question.

Lying was about as much in her line as safe-blowing.

This is number 13, ain't it? Yes, sir.

Well, this was the address that was given to me.

Mugit, one of his officers, was dispatched with seven hundred horse to siege Cordova.

Lying hid till darkness came on, Mugit stealthily approached the city.

A storm of hail, which the Muslims regarded as a special favor of providence, muffled the clatter of their horses' hooves.

A shepherd pointed out a breach in the walls, and here the Moors determined to make the assault.

So let's sort that out straight away.

Leave the bureau in the snow Catch a tram to Uncle Poe Early evening ring around the moon Slip in by the concierge By the bikes and up the stairs Snap the latch and Lay back your head Smoke a cigarette And listen to the radio Listen to the radio In the city late tonight Double feature black and white Bitter tears and taxi to the club Show your papers, be polite Walking home with nowhere else to go You throw off your coat Pick up my note Put another copy on Lie down on the Atmospherics after dark.

Noise and voices from the past.

Across the dial from Moscow to Cologne.

The ringing quay, the weathered face, Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race, The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore, Gale and hot suns, the wide world o'er, Gray north, red south, and burnished west, The goals of the old tireless quest Leap in the smoke immortal free Where shine yon morning fringe of sea.

I turn, and lo! the moorlands high Lie still and frigid to the sky.

The film of morn is silver-gray On the young heather, and away, Dim distant, set in ribs of hill, Green glens are shining, stream and mill, Clachan and kirk and garden ground, All silent in the hush profound Which haunts alone the hill's recess, The antique home of quietness.

Nor to the folk can piper play The tune of hills and far away, For they are with them: morn can fire No peaks of weary heart's desire, Nor the red sunset flame behind Some ancient ridge of longing mind.

The ringing quay, the weathered face, Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race, The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore, Gale and hot suns, the wide world o'er, Gray North, red South, and burnished West, The goals of the old tireless quest Leap in the smoke immortal, free, Where shine yon morning fringe of sea.

I turn, and lo! the moorlands high Lie still and frigid to the sky.

The film of morn is silver-gray On the young heather, and away, Dim distant, set in ribs of hill, Green glens are shining, stream and mill, Clachan and kirk and garden ground, All silent in the hush profound Which haunts alone the hill's recess, The antique home of quietness.

Nor to the folk can piper play The tune of hills and far away, For they are with them.

Oh, that's the...

Lord, that's the fake new blues They print my name in headlines But they twist it like they chew Lie, I tell them straight I tell them true

But what's a man to do Just singing my song all day long That's the fake new blues

They were trying to kill me They bid it twice.

I remember so clearly mum and dad had this radio in their kitchen and mum had played like music, like Zoo FM every morning.

And they had this segment in the mornings called Liberal or Lie, as in like the Dubbo Daily Liberal or a Lie.

And you had to guess if it was the front page of the paper or not.

And the guy, the host of the radio station was like, thousands dead in, you know, like terrorist attack that's going to end the world, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.