Stop trying to pretend that You are going to stop- You're either a smoker or you're not. You will keep on smoking For the rest of your life, And then
It's very late and I'm staring at my first guitar and having doubts about my paramour. I'm kept awake by the whitest noise, the frail voice that made
Yeah!-On leaving school immersed in philanthropic notions (of a kind these days i find unthinkable)-I pulled my frail frame onto my charger and rode
I am the small town linesman And you'll find me out here on the line. Searching ceaselessly to simply Find a place i can call mine. Every corner of this
To Carthage then I came As a young boy lost in the promise of The steady beating heart Of the metropolis. But I spent so long here beneath The dim street
The maternity ward Where I was born Was knocked down in the first gulf war To build an airport For housing Allied steel, For upholding ideals, Like a
in place of their mp5s. Steven Biko, what happened to Soweto? Your disposessed millions have retained their apartheid slum. Wealthy millions here comes
off, I don't want to Follow time tables Or tracks. I will cut New paths through Topsoil and tarmac. Old hands, new power, More miles per hour- Strange light in the ancient mills
, And understanding the need to record, But like falling trees we somehow miss the point, Illiteracy we can ill afford, And thus we fail like every other
Father my father, well what have you left for me? What am I to make of this convoluted legacy? You raised me, ingrained me Led me to believe that the
When the last of the echoes fades, When the cymbals and the strings Have died away, When I am left with just The ringing in my ears, I take a breath
If every child chased dreams of societal reorganization in place of sweet wrappers and escape Then we would see Mr. Cadbury's enlightened industrialism
mouth and don't tell me it didn't happen. These sights and sounds engraved on hearts. We can't doubt the voices of the million dead, but we can't doubt
It's just a song Just another generic mid-paced foot-tapper Just a conservative assembly of melody and basic rhythm. Four-on-the-floor A key change
The leg bone is connected to the Foot bone is connected to the Export Processing Zones. And it's nothing we condone. But everybody owns A pair of those
Well you can tell by the way I move my feet that I'm a genuine insurrectionary It's a kind of nervous shuffle that contrasts so well with Bolshevik bravado
It's tragic to concede geothermals To take the Deus from the Machina and yet what could I have done? I bowed my head and just injured my neck. What
"You" a?? another tired second-person address, words written hastily and under duress. I'm cold and holed up in the back of the van, devoid of eloquence
