Scott Lavene - Debbie

All the fancy machines are on the floor in the lounge and they’re switched on, Humming. Bleep bleep. Bloop bloop.
Debbie’s an inventor, she’s trying to build a rocket.
“You’re in the way”, she says.
“And get me another extension lead.
Oh, and take the bread out of that, it’s not a toaster.”
Take the bread out of that, it’s not a toaster.

Outside, the moon is lavender blue, and curved liked a kitten. The light on the fish and chip shop is flicking on and off, and buzzing like a bag of wasps. Kids are throwing stones at a white circle drawn on a garage door, 10 points. clang, clang, clang clang, clang clang. It’s not a toaster.
Take the bread out of that, it’s not a toaster.

“It’s a nice evening,” I say. “Can’t we go out? You could save the inventing for winter.”
“I need to be gone by October,” she says. “I have a mission from Zeus.
I am a constructor of empires for future generations. I am the saviour of all our filthy souls. I am Debbie.”

“Do you want some more juice Debbie?” I say. But she don’t reply.
Take the bread out of that, it’s not a toaster.

I’ve got an itch on my leg. I’m not going to itch it. I’m going to think about something to make it go away just like astronauts do. I think about how many loafs of bread it would take to build a staircase to the moon. I think about Debbie before she became an inventor. She worked in the make up department of Debenhams. She always smelt like a box of roses and her hair was slick like she’d got out of the bath even though she hadn’t. She looked like one of those women in the Robert Palmer video when they’re all pretending to play instruments while he sings about being addicted to love. I used to be addicted to love. I loved so much that I run out of underpants. I loved so much that I know how to escape from a block of flats without using any doors.
Take the bread out of that, it’s not a toaster.

That itch is still there.
“Here Debbie, Can you invent me a pair of magic trousers?”
“What do you want them to do?”
“I want one pocket to stay full up with cash and one pocket to stay filled up with cold custard”
Debbie drinks her glass down in one and hands me the empty vessel, covered in sooty fingerprints and a greasy mark from her lips.
“We need more juice,” she says. “And I need fuses. Lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of fuses.”
Take the bread out of that, it’s not a toaster

Written by:
Scott Lavene, Benjamin Woods

Publisher:
Lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc.

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