Green bed of bottles open to the sky, Bare head of drunk, the beads of sweat go dry Say's hes sorry, tender as a lamb. She says go, Meaning stay, Meaning you have to pay. Behind the moon, In the dead zone, In the darkness, Where lovers all are blind. Sources of light in this land of the dead, Are electric shocks and blows to the head, The silence broken by his voice alone, Saying yes, Meaning no, As he tears down their home. Behind the moon, In the dead zone, I'll still be calling, Calling out for you. Behind the moon, When all hope has gone, Well, what else Would you have me do. Green bed of bottles. Green bed of bottles and bottles and, Green.
- August 20th. - Yes folks, its another clammy warm night in England. A large crowd has gathered around the police station. Everybody, everybody wishes to have contact with a certain little irish writer within. Not to discuss his works, although the works are know to them - they've been published in the tabloids by the police under the heading "Barbaric Butchers Brochures". - No, they want to tear his very head from his body for what it is alleged he did in the way of mortal damage to two soldiers in a nearby public lavotory. - The night draws in, and nobody would say a word about him, except a fool like me. Rainy Ireland in the 50s, There outside a pink farmhouse door, Small Bertie playing at digging trenches, Asks "Daddy, whats the blowtorch for?" He said, "The torch will cut the cars, To turn them into sculpture, So I can express what I feel. The college men may laugh, The farmers persecute me, But I do it for myself, And so should you." Come look at Berties Brochures, You'll be enchated Im sure. The whole world's in Bertie's Brochures. All the wisdom, All the smiles, And dear friends. To freakshow Britain through the 80s Bertie works in labs, But his fathers aims still endure, Though only at night does he do his real work, Learning, Writing his brochures, For he still believes That everyones a poet, And that all he ahs to do is set it down. So transform the milkman, The waitress and the gunman, Into immortal art. Now they're laughing at Bertie's brocures, Detectives with crowbars and skewers, They see things in Bertie's brochures, Like their hatred of all other races, And their fear. Don't laugh at Bertie's brochures, He would not if they were yours. So what if your enemy's there? Berties an artist, Why should he care?
Shiny Happy People
Originally by Stipe/Berry/Buck/Mills, lyrics and heavy modification by Cathal Coughlan.
- Here we fucking go! We got your dad, We got your dad, We're gonna make him dance with a cold cold head. We'll fill him full of whiskey, And bring him back to life, Just as well I like 'em nice and tight. Streetlights flashing on the way to the disco Grand parade Meet me in the crowd, i'll be yelling out loud, With a 666, i'll do it i will, .... You like like the type who'd like to suck a big pipe, Tonight could be your night, if you play your cards right. Shiny happy people holding hands - yes, that is correct, that is what we are seeing Shiny happy people holding hands - Go fuck yourself. - Go fuck yourself. Pardon me, when you shoot up dear, do not spew up dear, it may be space here. Zebrugge '87, mass murder, Campaign contributions, it goes no further, Innocent people lost their lives, Five more years of government by ..... daughters, Spanked arses of closet queens, Who make it a crime to be gay. Shiny happy people holding hands Shiny happy people holding hands Go fuck yourself. Fuck your nuclear family, Fuck your digital advertising, Fuck your showbusiness, Most of all fuck your showbusiness Shiny happy people holding hands Shiny happy people holding hands - I must be blind, I can't see them! Shiny happy people holding hands Shiny happy people holding hands
The mother of the nation has gone. She has hobbled on to her uncertain fate, having only a tycoons salary given to her to fund the purchase of that monkey-shit brown hair rinse we know so well. They act like nothing ever happened, but it did. it's too late. It's too late for the thousands of people driven to and the doctorine of their own obsolescance. Too late for the to buy guns. Guns which this nation is too unimportant to even use. It's too late to stop the rot, the rot she even denied existed, and many thus forgot. The rot which accelerated, until it will not be stopped Mario Vargas Yoni, Intellectual right-wing son-of-a-bitch from the Venus fly-trap lips curling So alert, So elegant. Admires the departed killer for her "courage". Tonight, he talks with Reggie Gurdjieff, most intelligent man in the United Kingdom, about his new novel, Shag Aunty Penny. to finance the privitisation of the land. But first, the bad weather.
The jet plane draws a jagged wound along the dimming autumn sky, His breath steams on ahead of him as through the tenament he does stride, To knock upon some doors, The boy who asked for more, Who he hid his real so the people just saw, They saw him smiling, They only ever saw him smiling, He breathed the air of the barbers shop, the steam, smoke and cheap cologne, He says, "Old man tell this razor blade how much you want to be left alone". Over the mirror to the left, A postcard girl with naked breasts, Brings us greetings from Crete to this ugly man's street, And just by smiling, And look, she's all smiling. She pouts and acts hot, For James Bond and his yaught His arching eyebrow, His martini seed, While in her village inland Starving children stone cans, And bet silver, The loser will bleed. In a few more years the cruel boy makes his way up to where the real power is, Until a bomb in his car blows him over a wall And his comrades shake their fists, You see the biggest killers of all, They say they are apalled, They say their rage is extreme" But you know what they mean Upstairs they're smiling, They're still scared, and still smiling.
Long About Now
By Scott Engel
Long about now, She's heading home, Back from the rain, Burned to the ground, Her ashes will rise, Black butterflies, Flapping at my window pane. She'll want to rest with my design, All the way, To the end. Lighting my skies up inside again, Dimming summer, Long about now, She's heading home, Drowning the games, That steal a man. Long about now, She'll shrug and sigh, And need me again.
The Great Valerio
By Richard Thompson.
High up above the crowd, The Great Valerio is walking, The rope seems hung from cloud to cloud, And time stands still as he is walking, His eyes steady on the target, His foot is sure upon the rope, Alone, and peaceful as a mountain, And certain as a mountain slope. We falter at the sight, We stumble in the mire, Fools think they see the light, Prepare to balance on the wire, But we learn to watch together, Feed on what we see above, Till our eyes turn like the seasons, And we are acrobats of love. How we wonder, How we wonder, Watching down below. We would all be that great hero, The Great Valerio. So come on all you upstart jugglers, Are you really ready yet? Who will help the tightrope walker, When soon he tumbles to the net, So come with me to see Valerio, As he dances through the air. I'm your friend until you use me,