"...And it dawned on me that even the most beautiful sunset will fade into the blackest night but just because it doesn’t last, it doesn’t mean that you cannot be touched by its beauty and enjoy its majesty or revel in its dying warmth."
Sunday, 6 January 2008
Thursday, 3 January 2008
'Waiting' - closing speech
Closing Speech!
It’s amazing what goes through your head when you can no longer engage with the act of living. Initially I was obsessed and consumed by all the time I had wasted waiting in fear and cowardice and queues and lines. Waiting for things to improve and happiness to find me – waiting for the pain to go away and the old wounds to heal. Waiting for someone who would come and make it all worthwhile. Waiting for my son to be born. (PAUSE – BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE AND REGULATED BREATHING) Little fragments of memory and isolated incidents replayed like scenes from an old movie in my head and I quickly realised that the value of life did not reside in what I had possessed; or what I thought and believed; or even what I aspired to – life’s worth is defined by the things we do and have done because it is our actions that reflect the integrity of our souls. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) Throughout our lives, we are made to believe that this endless, gluttonous consumption and callous destruction are the fuels that fire progress. But the truth is that it is just an advertising ploy, an aggressive marketing strategy – fiscal propaganda that has been designed to satisfy the greed of the profit mongers. In a better life, progress is the victory of peace over war; the sound of carefree laughter instead of angry dissent – consciousness as opposed to dogma. (PAUSE) Call me what you will, but always remember that I am so much more than your most all-encompassing perception – more even than my own most fertile imagination could conjure. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) I am not just the homeless child that you scorn, or the alcoholic mother or the raped sister or even the criminal father. I am all of this and more. I am you in the mirror, hiding under the lover’s bed or shying away in the closet; I am the outcast in your prison – in your cell. I am the joy and pain, and the delirium and heartache. I am your son and your daughter and your conscience. I am the object of your scorn, your pity – your most desirous aspirations. I am all of this and I am nothing because that’s what you choose to think! (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) Everyday we teach our children that they can become anything that they want to be. We tell them that they should dream big and strive purposefully to achieve their dreams, but then we turn around and with a smile on our faces, we place them squarely in a tiny little box with a big label emblazoned across the front. Boy, girl, black, white, Christian, Muslim, Tswana, Xhosa, good, bad, obedient, rebellious, clever, stupid, Masarwa… (RUNS OUT OF BREATH AND INHALES DEEPLY. THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) The list goes on and on and before you know it the children believe that you can no longer be trusted. Or even worse, that they are the sum total of all the bullshit you think. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & THE SOUND OF REGULATED BREATHING.) After spending months living in hope and waiting to awake and be a father to my son and a husband to his mother whom I intended to marry just as soon as I could walk down the isle, the doctors finally admitted that there was nothing they could do; that there was no hope for me and as more and more time passed, it was difficult for me not to believe them. There was nothing I could do and the only thing that was left was for me to wait; to bide my time silently praying that death will come and carry me away – because surely death is better than spending the rest of my days just waiting for a miracle – waiting for the show to begin or to end. (THE BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE & REGULATED BREATHING) The years have passed by in a moment, leaving just the scars and memories to keep me company; keeping me sane – helping me to cope with the strain. All the time wasted waiting for a better day, a better way, a reason to stay the distance despite this clinically reduced existence. Tick-tik-tock – spilled blood dries while the flesh rots: souls entwined inevitably unravel: the truth, a thread, a solitary trickle – a teardrop that rusts the moon’s sickle. Wasted living waiting for life to begin. Wasted living in someone else’s dream; where love once given cannot be returned – where souls once cherished cannot be spurned. The tender smiles and joyous laughter, the special moments that we share – these are the treasures that linger when you dance alone on the edge of despair. So much living wasted, waiting… (BEEP OF THE HEART MACHINE) Just waiting… (THE SOUND IS REPLACED BY THE CONSTANT BEEP AS HE FLAT-LINES AND THE LIGHTS FADE OUT.)
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Art or Entertainment?
I regularly conduct creative workshops with young people and one of the questions that consistently arise is concerned with the role of the artist in this constantly aspiring, modern consumer society.
My only answer is an idealistic notion of artists challenging common perceptions and being responsible for the nurturing of the soul of the nation. This is of course based on a seemingly outdated, quasi-romantic notion that stems from the fact that traditionally, visual artists were revered as social historians and poets and storytellers were held in high esteem for it was them who most ardently maintained the authenticity of our oral traditions.
In reality however, I am sometimes loathe to encourage an artistic career because it is not talent alone that sets successful artists apart – it is pure perseverance mixed with a generous dollop of good fortune and being prepared.
Many young actors, writers, visual artists and musicians quickly discard the noble ideals of creative and artistic endeavour in exchange for the relative safety that is to be found in the entertainment industry where formula is the order of the day.
As for the rest, the vast majority of aspirant talents are forced to choose between virtual starvation and the security of a ‘real’ job.
We have all been duped into believing that the only success stems from economic reward and mass appeal, but if this were truly the case then there would never have been any groundbreaking work done in any field. Often it is that which is most frowned upon by one generation that is later understood by the next and hailed as revolutionary.
As a result many of the most successful artists have died and continue to die as paupers in virtual obscurity only to become fabulously wealthy, household names posthumously. Has history taught us nothing?
The lure of financial comfort and polarity makes many of us think and create within a proven, successful structure – a tried and tested formula for good entertainment that is more often than not borrowed from the west.
We are expected to reinterpret the classics while our own forms and stories are forgotten and seldom disseminated.
I have heard many creative practitioners lamenting the fact that there is not a dedicated local audience or readership or listener and the reasons have been discussed to death – poverty, inaccessibility, a lack of appreciation and understanding or education.
Why is it that in order to get ‘bums-on-seats’, we need to resort to badly cast, television stars with dubious ability but high profiles or sensationalist stories of crime and violence and bloodshed? Have we lost the plot?
Unfortunately the problem exists everywhere where society – not government – does not value and cherish the role that artistic creation and creators play in defining the identity of a historically fragmented people. The time has long come when we should be seeking to be challenged and elevated as opposed to just being entertained; but I suppose that this too is just an idealistic, quasi-romantic notion that has no place in this modern context where original thought is still frowned upon as being indicative of mental instability.
My only answer is an idealistic notion of artists challenging common perceptions and being responsible for the nurturing of the soul of the nation. This is of course based on a seemingly outdated, quasi-romantic notion that stems from the fact that traditionally, visual artists were revered as social historians and poets and storytellers were held in high esteem for it was them who most ardently maintained the authenticity of our oral traditions.
In reality however, I am sometimes loathe to encourage an artistic career because it is not talent alone that sets successful artists apart – it is pure perseverance mixed with a generous dollop of good fortune and being prepared.
Many young actors, writers, visual artists and musicians quickly discard the noble ideals of creative and artistic endeavour in exchange for the relative safety that is to be found in the entertainment industry where formula is the order of the day.
As for the rest, the vast majority of aspirant talents are forced to choose between virtual starvation and the security of a ‘real’ job.
We have all been duped into believing that the only success stems from economic reward and mass appeal, but if this were truly the case then there would never have been any groundbreaking work done in any field. Often it is that which is most frowned upon by one generation that is later understood by the next and hailed as revolutionary.
As a result many of the most successful artists have died and continue to die as paupers in virtual obscurity only to become fabulously wealthy, household names posthumously. Has history taught us nothing?
The lure of financial comfort and polarity makes many of us think and create within a proven, successful structure – a tried and tested formula for good entertainment that is more often than not borrowed from the west.
We are expected to reinterpret the classics while our own forms and stories are forgotten and seldom disseminated.
I have heard many creative practitioners lamenting the fact that there is not a dedicated local audience or readership or listener and the reasons have been discussed to death – poverty, inaccessibility, a lack of appreciation and understanding or education.
Why is it that in order to get ‘bums-on-seats’, we need to resort to badly cast, television stars with dubious ability but high profiles or sensationalist stories of crime and violence and bloodshed? Have we lost the plot?
Unfortunately the problem exists everywhere where society – not government – does not value and cherish the role that artistic creation and creators play in defining the identity of a historically fragmented people. The time has long come when we should be seeking to be challenged and elevated as opposed to just being entertained; but I suppose that this too is just an idealistic, quasi-romantic notion that has no place in this modern context where original thought is still frowned upon as being indicative of mental instability.
All of you and me...
Over the years and beyond the grave
Like dust my very being is moved
From somewhere on the outside I look in
A lone spectre terminally removed.
Perverse indulgence within this foreign home
Inevitable mortality the reward
As I try to weave the fabric of my dreams
Just another sad loony living inside my head.
Where do all the smiles reside
After such intensely destructive confrontation
The bonds recede into a vague recollection
An ill-conceived notion of content.
Now this almost severe isolation expands
To encompass yet another life’s theme.
Like dust my very being is moved
From somewhere on the outside I look in
A lone spectre terminally removed.
Perverse indulgence within this foreign home
Inevitable mortality the reward
As I try to weave the fabric of my dreams
Just another sad loony living inside my head.
Where do all the smiles reside
After such intensely destructive confrontation
The bonds recede into a vague recollection
An ill-conceived notion of content.
Now this almost severe isolation expands
To encompass yet another life’s theme.
Silent Revolution
A trembling cymbal announces the underground buzz
People are talking about dissatisfaction because
There’s stuff going down that should not be allowed
And it grows within the crowd
As they stand there waiting for the band to begin
But then the master of ceremonies walks in
And he puts on a smile and straightens his tie
There’s a little twinkle in his eye
As he bites your listening ear off
Blood sputters as he stifles a cough
Looks such a fool that you can’t help but laugh
And it makes you think about yesterday.
(Chorus)
A silent revolution growing rhythmically underground
Where truth is more often than not found
Cloaked in the guise of the supposedly unwise
Beggar and chooser or just another loser, a bruiser
Everyone who didn’t make it in someone else’s esteem
And those who have succumb and the successfully dumb.
We were angry because we were being denied
There was no trust because we knew they lied
About how our brothers died ‘cause they tried
To propagate change in the face of persecution
Where their retribution led to execution
In the book of an Afrikaner god that hated blacks
And the truth of which they spoke
Our lives were nothing more than a cheap joke
Men turned into mindless killing machines
To protect the parents that were so scared
For all of their lives until they no longer cared
Or dared to hear the imminent sound of revolution.
(Chorus)
A silent revolution growing rhythmically underground
Where truth is more often than not found
Cloaked in the guise of the supposedly unwise
Beggar and chooser or just another loser, a bruiser
Everyone who didn’t make it in someone else’s esteem
And all who have succumb and even the successfully dumb.
People are talking about dissatisfaction because
There’s stuff going down that should not be allowed
And it grows within the crowd
As they stand there waiting for the band to begin
But then the master of ceremonies walks in
And he puts on a smile and straightens his tie
There’s a little twinkle in his eye
As he bites your listening ear off
Blood sputters as he stifles a cough
Looks such a fool that you can’t help but laugh
And it makes you think about yesterday.
(Chorus)
A silent revolution growing rhythmically underground
Where truth is more often than not found
Cloaked in the guise of the supposedly unwise
Beggar and chooser or just another loser, a bruiser
Everyone who didn’t make it in someone else’s esteem
And those who have succumb and the successfully dumb.
We were angry because we were being denied
There was no trust because we knew they lied
About how our brothers died ‘cause they tried
To propagate change in the face of persecution
Where their retribution led to execution
In the book of an Afrikaner god that hated blacks
And the truth of which they spoke
Our lives were nothing more than a cheap joke
Men turned into mindless killing machines
To protect the parents that were so scared
For all of their lives until they no longer cared
Or dared to hear the imminent sound of revolution.
(Chorus)
A silent revolution growing rhythmically underground
Where truth is more often than not found
Cloaked in the guise of the supposedly unwise
Beggar and chooser or just another loser, a bruiser
Everyone who didn’t make it in someone else’s esteem
And all who have succumb and even the successfully dumb.
Still Life
All the little things that I hold dear
Remain with me because I am here
Conscious despite everything I imbibe
I am the spokesman for my tribe.
A cold winter’s night under a cloudy sky
Some old brown and sausage on the braai
Music swinging in my head
Played by a band that is long dead.
The books I’ve read the movies I’ve seen
Every single place that I’ve ever been
Remains with me because I am here
In retrospect even confusion is clear.
There is still life while the dream is alive
There is still hope while some of us strive.
Remain with me because I am here
Conscious despite everything I imbibe
I am the spokesman for my tribe.
A cold winter’s night under a cloudy sky
Some old brown and sausage on the braai
Music swinging in my head
Played by a band that is long dead.
The books I’ve read the movies I’ve seen
Every single place that I’ve ever been
Remains with me because I am here
In retrospect even confusion is clear.
There is still life while the dream is alive
There is still hope while some of us strive.
Again Forever
Everything’s looking good
Like you were hoping it would
The mood is set but you need to get
Another drink just in case
Tipsy and ticking with your blood shot nose
Having two of that and one of those
Spending your time having all this fun
Underwear is stuck right up in your bum
But you sit there and lounge about
With a smile on your face and a sensual pout
And you’re trying to take stock
Figuring out the odds of getting fucked
And while you think you have another drink
And the idiot smile gets worse
Like your brain’s in reverse
And when you talk you realise
That you’re losing the plot
Faster than a soap opera story line
So you turn and look in the mirror behind the bar
And even though it is quite far
You think you see a piece of snot
Sticking out on a nostril hair
And you were wishing you had a place where
You could stick your head
But instead you have another drink
And your capacity to think
Takes another blow
When your ex girlfriend walks in looking good
And you realise that you should
Have been someone else’s problem
All along, all alone on your own
And you thought it was because of them
You believed you were such a gem
A treasure to find in an ugly place
But the shit in your head still defines that space
And all you ever were and all you are
And everything that you will be
Will amount to nothing more than another round
Just one more drink because no-one else is around
After you bored them to death
And forced them to endure your breath
You are still surprised that you’re alone
Again forever, if only you had never
Pickled your liver or fried your brain
You still believe you have nothing to gain
By being more of you and less of that
Which you claim to despise
As you lower your eyes and your head
Trying to deal with the dread
And hopeless gloom and doom
That is your staff and your light
As you venture forth each night.
Like you were hoping it would
The mood is set but you need to get
Another drink just in case
Tipsy and ticking with your blood shot nose
Having two of that and one of those
Spending your time having all this fun
Underwear is stuck right up in your bum
But you sit there and lounge about
With a smile on your face and a sensual pout
And you’re trying to take stock
Figuring out the odds of getting fucked
And while you think you have another drink
And the idiot smile gets worse
Like your brain’s in reverse
And when you talk you realise
That you’re losing the plot
Faster than a soap opera story line
So you turn and look in the mirror behind the bar
And even though it is quite far
You think you see a piece of snot
Sticking out on a nostril hair
And you were wishing you had a place where
You could stick your head
But instead you have another drink
And your capacity to think
Takes another blow
When your ex girlfriend walks in looking good
And you realise that you should
Have been someone else’s problem
All along, all alone on your own
And you thought it was because of them
You believed you were such a gem
A treasure to find in an ugly place
But the shit in your head still defines that space
And all you ever were and all you are
And everything that you will be
Will amount to nothing more than another round
Just one more drink because no-one else is around
After you bored them to death
And forced them to endure your breath
You are still surprised that you’re alone
Again forever, if only you had never
Pickled your liver or fried your brain
You still believe you have nothing to gain
By being more of you and less of that
Which you claim to despise
As you lower your eyes and your head
Trying to deal with the dread
And hopeless gloom and doom
That is your staff and your light
As you venture forth each night.
Bit a this, bit a that...
So, you thought that you’d come out tonight
Finally built up the courage after the last fright
Day and night, hanging in there
Hoping everything will turn out alright.
Rest assured and enjoy the peace of mind
If you look around you will find
A bunch of happy lunatics having a drink
Sharing the shit they think
With anyone who will listen for long enough
These Friday nights can get rough
But never at the Sauce of course.
This is a conducive space
Nothings particularly in your face
Settle down relax, take off your shoes and socks
Welcome to the alumni of hard knocks
We’ve all been around a few blocks
Did our time drank the wine
At the end of the ceremony
When everyone clapped
And stood showing their teeth
Shining in the afterglow of a spotlight
That was not theirs on the night
And would never be for far too many
As they get caught up and trod down
And shoved around until they bend
And break and finally succumb
Or simply pick up a gun one day
And kill the wife and the only child
And in a moment with thoughts running wild
They change their minds but it is too late
And the neighbour rushing in at the gate
Hears another shot that marks the fate
Of the guy who sat in the corner
Always alone and on his own
Smiling and polite every night
For a thousand weeks
As he seeks a pleasant escape
In the embrace of the grape.
Finally built up the courage after the last fright
Day and night, hanging in there
Hoping everything will turn out alright.
Rest assured and enjoy the peace of mind
If you look around you will find
A bunch of happy lunatics having a drink
Sharing the shit they think
With anyone who will listen for long enough
These Friday nights can get rough
But never at the Sauce of course.
This is a conducive space
Nothings particularly in your face
Settle down relax, take off your shoes and socks
Welcome to the alumni of hard knocks
We’ve all been around a few blocks
Did our time drank the wine
At the end of the ceremony
When everyone clapped
And stood showing their teeth
Shining in the afterglow of a spotlight
That was not theirs on the night
And would never be for far too many
As they get caught up and trod down
And shoved around until they bend
And break and finally succumb
Or simply pick up a gun one day
And kill the wife and the only child
And in a moment with thoughts running wild
They change their minds but it is too late
And the neighbour rushing in at the gate
Hears another shot that marks the fate
Of the guy who sat in the corner
Always alone and on his own
Smiling and polite every night
For a thousand weeks
As he seeks a pleasant escape
In the embrace of the grape.
The Dumb Master
Before I even gazed out on this world
A callous attempt was made on my life:
Bound and caught up
In an inane rhetoric
That served only to shackle the souls
Of the countless, mindless, masters.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
Ill intent and folds of skin
Ineffectually disguising the beast
That sought to devour our spirit
Tried to deny our souls
Called us a name that has somehow stuck.
Built walls, long crumbled to dust
Steel bars that have turned to rust
All the lies we were meant to trust
Thought they’d feed millions with one stale crust
Defiled my sister to satisfy their lust
Should we rot in prison when we get bust.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
Their hatred consumed their very own souls
And now they lurk mumbling in the shadows
Waiting for the past to return
Hoping in vain that they will regain
The merest vestige of their former worth
That was bred in the abyss
Of a psychopath’s mind.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
We watched the emptiness grow
They continued as if they didn’t know
Reality came and it delivered them a blow
Now they eat the bitter fruit of all they did sow
Demanding subsidies for all that they owe
Pointing fingers even as they go
Too many that still despise them so
I’m not sorry, but I hate them bro’.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
A callous attempt was made on my life:
Bound and caught up
In an inane rhetoric
That served only to shackle the souls
Of the countless, mindless, masters.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
Ill intent and folds of skin
Ineffectually disguising the beast
That sought to devour our spirit
Tried to deny our souls
Called us a name that has somehow stuck.
Built walls, long crumbled to dust
Steel bars that have turned to rust
All the lies we were meant to trust
Thought they’d feed millions with one stale crust
Defiled my sister to satisfy their lust
Should we rot in prison when we get bust.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
Their hatred consumed their very own souls
And now they lurk mumbling in the shadows
Waiting for the past to return
Hoping in vain that they will regain
The merest vestige of their former worth
That was bred in the abyss
Of a psychopath’s mind.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
We watched the emptiness grow
They continued as if they didn’t know
Reality came and it delivered them a blow
Now they eat the bitter fruit of all they did sow
Demanding subsidies for all that they owe
Pointing fingers even as they go
Too many that still despise them so
I’m not sorry, but I hate them bro’.
But what they failed to realise
Is that just below the surface
Blatantly apparent to all who would see
Like curdled milk in rich, dark coffee.
Hanover Park
Daa’ loep Tiema, sy’s wee’ me’ ‘nie lyf
Windjie waai en mince haa’ kuif
Voete’s vaal van al ‘ie loep
Winkel toe om brood te koep.
Die kin’ertjies speel buite by ‘rie blok
Pa het lankal uitgeklok
Hy’t ee’ste uitgegooi op ‘ie hoek
Lekke’ líewe, vríet net koek
Kan’tie sy naam was heel tyd in ‘ie boek
Te veel mense het hom ve’vloek
Nou is Tiema stok-siel allíen
Soek ‘n burk om míen te spíen.
Wan’ ’nie líewe is swaa’
Al’dou is djy waa’
Die sukkel hou nie op ‘ie
Soe o’s drink ma’ nog ‘n doppie
Gevríet ne’ me’ wee’ in ‘ie san’
En hulle sê is o’s lan’
Soe ‘it is mos o’right om kak te vríet
Drown ‘ie sorrows en ve’dríet
Totdat die ouens wee’ begin’e skiet
En nog ‘n laaitie moet al wee’ djiet
Mang toe as hy lucky is
On’e ‘rie gron’ en weg me’ ‘nie lus.
Windjie waai en mince haa’ kuif
Voete’s vaal van al ‘ie loep
Winkel toe om brood te koep.
Die kin’ertjies speel buite by ‘rie blok
Pa het lankal uitgeklok
Hy’t ee’ste uitgegooi op ‘ie hoek
Lekke’ líewe, vríet net koek
Kan’tie sy naam was heel tyd in ‘ie boek
Te veel mense het hom ve’vloek
Nou is Tiema stok-siel allíen
Soek ‘n burk om míen te spíen.
Wan’ ’nie líewe is swaa’
Al’dou is djy waa’
Die sukkel hou nie op ‘ie
Soe o’s drink ma’ nog ‘n doppie
Gevríet ne’ me’ wee’ in ‘ie san’
En hulle sê is o’s lan’
Soe ‘it is mos o’right om kak te vríet
Drown ‘ie sorrows en ve’dríet
Totdat die ouens wee’ begin’e skiet
En nog ‘n laaitie moet al wee’ djiet
Mang toe as hy lucky is
On’e ‘rie gron’ en weg me’ ‘nie lus.
The Plane Truth - from the musical 'Torong'
Everywhere in this one horse town
The same old shit is going down
Bunch of headless chickens running round
Screaming, frustrated, without a sound.
This shit is bigger than you and me
In order to be, you have to live you see
All this talk about how to be free
Like a troop of monkeys in a thorn tree
You stand there bleeding but none hear your plea
You get so mad that you want to flee
But your only reward is a lock and key
You lash out and sustain injury
Cause this shit’s much bigger than you and me.
And I don’t care about your past pain
Because to me it’s all the same
A kick in the head will affect the brain
Make you mad, take you over the edge
Drive you nuts, totally insane.
We’ve all had a very tough break in life
Me and you and my common law wife
We’ve survived because we’ve dealt with the strife
We’ve been kicked and shot
And I was stabbed with a knife;
But never did anyone reach out a hand
Never did anyone take a stand
All the talk about this glorious land
I’m sure you’d agree that it is so grand
But we belong to the wrong fucking band
We’ve slipped through everybody’s fingers man,
Blowing in the wind like dry sand.
So don’t talk to me about your past
Because mine certainly wasn’t a blast
The cards are dealt and the dice cast
And you and me we’ll always come last.
The aggression is in my veins
Like a lesion on my brains
The passion rains
In a session that strains
To distribute a nations gains
The people need food,
Fuck presidential planes.
The same old shit is going down
Bunch of headless chickens running round
Screaming, frustrated, without a sound.
This shit is bigger than you and me
In order to be, you have to live you see
All this talk about how to be free
Like a troop of monkeys in a thorn tree
You stand there bleeding but none hear your plea
You get so mad that you want to flee
But your only reward is a lock and key
You lash out and sustain injury
Cause this shit’s much bigger than you and me.
And I don’t care about your past pain
Because to me it’s all the same
A kick in the head will affect the brain
Make you mad, take you over the edge
Drive you nuts, totally insane.
We’ve all had a very tough break in life
Me and you and my common law wife
We’ve survived because we’ve dealt with the strife
We’ve been kicked and shot
And I was stabbed with a knife;
But never did anyone reach out a hand
Never did anyone take a stand
All the talk about this glorious land
I’m sure you’d agree that it is so grand
But we belong to the wrong fucking band
We’ve slipped through everybody’s fingers man,
Blowing in the wind like dry sand.
So don’t talk to me about your past
Because mine certainly wasn’t a blast
The cards are dealt and the dice cast
And you and me we’ll always come last.
The aggression is in my veins
Like a lesion on my brains
The passion rains
In a session that strains
To distribute a nations gains
The people need food,
Fuck presidential planes.
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