Moyet later described how her song "Goodbye 70's" had been inspired by her disillusionment with how the late-1970s punk scene had turned out, saying, "'Goodbye 70's' is about punk and not caring how you were dressed, and then I discovered that so many of my friends that I'd thought it all really meant something to just saw it as another trend... That's what 'Goodbye 70's' was all about, about how sour the whole thing became."
First and foremost, let it be said,
I am writing this at 7:10 am,
On the hard dry tarmac of a vacant forecourt.
Astronomically speaking, it's the first day of Autumn.
But the sun is hanging round like summer's hungover.
They'll knock the garage down and build flats where I sit.
The traffic's so persistent that it barely registers
And it smells like a mix between petrol and dog shit.
Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your back
I just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"
Sometimes it's just enough to know I keep him on his toes.
Is he as sympathetic as me to the untimely demise of your synthetic clothes?
I've displayed marriage proposals on the Jumbotrons of ballgames you've not been at,
I've written eulogies in guestbooks of galleries in the hopes that you might pass
Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your back
I just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"
She; nervous and barefoot, chats to me at the front door.
He; boyfriend, inside's a saint, becoming a martyr.
Me; rolling, writhing on the floor, stared daggers pulled from my thoracic wall.
When I hold sea shells to my ears, I'm pretty sure I can hear you.
He gave a gift of the Faber book of love poems,
Annotated the ones he thought applied the most.
Not gonna win you round with prose,
If anyone should know then it's I should know.
Girl, there must be a reason you let it slip,
Went to the point of sending the message.
Six months of visceral catherine wheels,
Kissing carnivores to make it seem like less of a deal.
Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your back
I just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"
I promise after this I will pick up the phone book
And choose the name that my eyes fall upon on their first look.
Aim all of my poorly composed declarations there in the future.
I'm so sorry to have to put you through a lifetime of dedications
You never desired
But this one sentence bludgeons me over the head
Ok, I'm a little bit drunk and I mean just a little bit
No lush in denial, only rather coquettish
I'm fifteen years old and my parents' only son,
Like I barely survived a girls' school education.
Even prettier now that you've grown your hair long,
I'm a slip of a man since I cut mine all off.
Please just let me be the one to keep track
Of the freckles and the moles on your back.
I am writing this at 7:10 am,
On the hard dry tarmac of a vacant forecourt.
Astronomically speaking, it's the first day of Autumn.
But the sun is hanging round like summer's hungover.
They'll knock the garage down and build flats where I sit.
The traffic's so persistent that it barely registers
And it smells like a mix between petrol and dog shit.
Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your back
I just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"
Sometimes it's just enough to know I keep him on his toes.
Is he as sympathetic as me to the untimely demise of your synthetic clothes?
I've displayed marriage proposals on the Jumbotrons of ballgames you've not been at,
I've written eulogies in guestbooks of galleries in the hopes that you might pass
Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your back
I just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"
She; nervous and barefoot, chats to me at the front door.
He; boyfriend, inside's a saint, becoming a martyr.
Me; rolling, writhing on the floor, stared daggers pulled from my thoracic wall.
When I hold sea shells to my ears, I'm pretty sure I can hear you.
He gave a gift of the Faber book of love poems,
Annotated the ones he thought applied the most.
Not gonna win you round with prose,
If anyone should know then it's I should know.
Girl, there must be a reason you let it slip,
Went to the point of sending the message.
Six months of visceral catherine wheels,
Kissing carnivores to make it seem like less of a deal.
Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your back
I just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"
I promise after this I will pick up the phone book
And choose the name that my eyes fall upon on their first look.
Aim all of my poorly composed declarations there in the future.
I'm so sorry to have to put you through a lifetime of dedications
You never desired
But this one sentence bludgeons me over the head
Ok, I'm a little bit drunk and I mean just a little bit
No lush in denial, only rather coquettish
I'm fifteen years old and my parents' only son,
Like I barely survived a girls' school education.
Even prettier now that you've grown your hair long,
I'm a slip of a man since I cut mine all off.
Please just let me be the one to keep track
Of the freckles and the moles on your back.
Lyrics submitted by iwishiwasthemoon, edited by TheSatah
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"He; boyfriend, inside's a saint, becoming a martyr" could be in referrence to how the girls sees her boyfriend, as some kind of a saint? But since the narrator is "writhing" (metaphorically, obviously) in pain from the "daggers" in his chest (thoracic wall), he's glaring at the boyfriend as if he wants to kill him, hence the "becoming a martyr" part?
Alternatively, the martyr referrence could be how this girl has killed the narrator through heartbreak and will inevitably do the same to the boyfriend she is with at that moment.
That's what I love about LC! lyrics, they're so wide open for interpretation. (:
Beautiful song, I think everyone has found themselves in this kind of situation at some point.