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Work – Put your backs into the plough, you serfs,
Work – Wait for the meek to inherit the Earth,
Work – Beg for the pennies, it’s all you deserve,
And if you train them really well we’ll let your children serve,
Work – Get back down onto the floor and scrub,
Work – Grind your fingers down to the bloody stubs,
Work – Numb the pain with a couple of hours at the pub,
And if you’re very very lucky we might let you join our club,
Guess what the best-dressed guest at his friend’s wedding gets to be.
What’s the betting he ends up the next stressed exec, desperately
Sweating away the best of his seven decades fending off entropy,
Up to his neck in oppressive debt, depressed existentially,
Smells like a recipe for a mess of deathbed regrets to me…
The effects of obsession with success tend to be oppressive, see,
The endless collection of ephemeral possessions, the essentially
Endemic pressure to best every competitor, guess it just gets to me.
What’s the point in it? Where’s the objective? Where’s all this going?
Yeah, I’ll help row the boat but I’ve no notion where this river is flowing,
Yes yes, progress, but what direction are we progressing in?
This vessel that we’re wrestling, second-guessing and stressing in,
Who’s got the map? Are they even holding it up the right way?
Do they have any idea what all those weird little symbols say?
Only, I’m getting the impression that this boat is going nowhere
And I’m like, alright, but I ain’t about to break my back to row there.
Work – If your life is not quite what you planned,
Work – Be sure you don’t remove your head from the sand,
Work – Cos the marketplace is a foreign land
And you can’t criticise it if you don’t understand.
Work – Go flip burgers ‘cos arbeit macht fries
Work – Take your wages to the shops and buy
Work – Moan about the licence fee but subscribe to Sky
And if we find we’re short of money you can do it till you die.
“There’s always pay to be made if you’re not afraid of hard work”,
OK, explain the stagnation of basic wages, you berk.
It’s simple supply and demand; this is economics for dummies,
If bosses really needed more workers they’d offer more money,
Meanwhile, the privileged who are sitting on millions
Are still bitching about dishing out a diminishing pittance in benefits, still insisting the recipients are villains for pissing it on minimal subsistence instead of winning at business.
Telling the poor to employ themselves for more hours is
Like telling the homeless to build more affordable houses.
Cos, when the rich fuck up and fail, no doubt, They’re job creators, so taxpayers have to bail them out.
"We’re all terribly sad to see free national health go, but
Lord Fotherington Thomas’s moat won’t renovate itself, so...",
You thought the stakeholder economy was going to level the pitch?
No, you still live and die just trying to justify your existence to the rich.
Work - (repeat ad mortem)
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2. |
Horror Clown
04:52
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Bitte nicht den Horror-Clown; er ist ein grosse scheisse…
You can’t escape the horror clown,
He strikes when you are sleeping,
You can tell him by the sound of children weeping,
Dust off your sectarian flags
And hang them on your porches,
Fetch your pitchforks from the barn,
And light your torches!
As humanity staggers towards inevitable oblivion,
And the batsman of democracy trudges back to the pavilion,
And the world’s clearly a shit-heap in a piss-trough of corruption,
And the four horsemen of the apocalypse are like “What’s the point of us, then?”,
I would like to analyse how we arrived at this position,
Piss-stinking and blinking on the brink of our own extinction,
Go back four score years, we fought a war here, against fascism, in Britain,
Now we’re too busy with pictures of kittens to consider political decisions,
But back in reality, the actual one, not virtual reality,
Where you don’t respawn or get reborn if you suffer a fatality,
From TV’s seething breeding ground of insanity and banality
Comes a calamity of a man of such delusional venality
That his whole personality’s basically a personality disorder,
Ordering walls across the border that he can’t afford, but,
It’s OK; Mexico’ll pay for themselves to go away,
Except this thick git’s now actually the actual President of the actual USA. Now, to you, what does that say?
Chorus
“I fink everyone should chill, mate; look, it might not be that bad,
Plus, the world’s impending ending’s trending, and it’s making me feel sad,
You never know, he might be better now it’s over and he’s won,
Who are we to judge someone based solely on everything he’s ever said and done?
We should do our best to help him; heal the wounds and work together”,
Nope; see, that one’s called appeasement; when’s it worked? Um - hang on - never.
He’s already inviting our right wing into his company of cunts,
Already dribbling his fascistic jizz all down our National Front,
See, the point is, the fact that there’s the merest possibility
Of twats like that twat anywhere near the spheres of serious responsibility,
Would a couple of years back have been an idea of the severest implausibility,
But now I fear, that we’re experiencing another era of mass-stupidity.
“I know words; I have the best words”; that’s the measure of the bloke,
I mean, that’d have been a piece of genius if it were s’posed to be a joke,
And, maybe best not to mention his intentions when he talks about his daughter,
Like he knows he oughtn’t assault her, but he still has all those naughty thoughts of …
What? It’s just - locker room talk, yeah?
Chorus
The year is 2067; after decades of great war
The Earth’s a furnace with its surface burnt by weapons-grade rainstorms,
There’s just a few groups of pollution-consuming mutant future humans looting the shopping malls, knocking all the zombies off with lasers and chainsaws,
Yeah, the reality is, it’s probably not going to be quite that cool,
Desolate deserts of recession tend to be unpleasantly depressing, as a rule.
Plus, though the dystopia’s distant, between that place and here,
There’s that shit period where it gets a little nearer and you get a bit wearier every year.
Anyway, OK, back to the present day, what I meant to say,
About this rapey race-baiting mate of the KKK in charge of the USA,
That President who presents evidence of Wernicke’s aphasia;
The one whose integrity evidently underwent unconsenting euthanasia,
Yeah, that one, who, every morning, when they’re pouring him into his suit,
Probably drinks the pussy juice of a virgin and then has a couple of lines of toot,
And then they plop him in his office to check the profits for his investors,
While they paint his highlights with iron pyrites and spray his face with grated red Leicester,
Yeah, that incestuous sex pest and inveterate molester,
The one whose world is gold and marble but whose heart’s pure polyester,
Well, I’d like to send him a direct message, like to offer him a challenge:
Yeah, you mate; you think you have the best words? You think you got verbal talents?
You’re not ashamed to go on stage and claim you’re “highly educated”,
I’ll give you a fucking education, mate, all marked, dated and graded,
There’ll be red pen spelling Fs then, you incoherent little man,
When I hand back your language homework, it’ll be marked “No Pasaran!”.
I’ll give you lines; write out ten times, “I apologise for lying”,
You snivelling shit, is that a quivering lip? Are you beginning to piss, or you just crying?
You can’t handle yourself verbally, the mere idea’s a clear absurdity,
You can’t even manage common courtesy; prove that you’ve got better words than me,
Come on, I’m serious; let’s see it; I’ve got time; I’ll put the kettle on,
Let’s see your best textual efforts, Don; stretch the breadth of your lexicon
You reckon it’s eloquent, the level on which you unintelligibly blether on?
You ain’t got the best words, motherfucker; very clearly I’ve got better ones.
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3. |
Come Dance With Me
04:21
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Come dance with me,
All human life is doomed, but there’s such a lovely moon,
Come dance with me,
There’s fire in the skies, and it quite brings out your eyes,
Come dance with me,
There’s chaos and there’s fear, and it’s music to my ears,
Come dance with me,
It’s only the end of the world,
Every day you put your finger on the trigger, and pull it.
There’s forty thousand chambers and in one of them’s a bullet,
Deactivate the safety, aim it at your head,
Close your eyes and count to ten and find out if you’re dead
Every day you pray you’ll make it safely through the game alive,
The clicking of the mechanism tells you survived,
And suddenly your senses get intensively extended,
And the shit that’s insignificant gets set right in perspective.
Work starts early? Turn up late.
Boss getting stroppy? Fuck that, mate.
I ain’t a dog for scrapping in the gutter for my dinner,
Every day without a break I’ve been a motherfucking winner.
Every day I face the spectre of my death, and I beat it.
And every scrap of fate on my plate, I eat it.
Any move that you can think of, I’ve countered in advance.,
So stop trying to fight, and come and have a dance.
Come dance with me,
While civilisation burns, we can take a couple of turns,
Come dance with me,
At the dying of the light, dance into the endless night,
Come dance with me,
All flesh is doomed to rot, would you care for a gavotte?
Come dance with me,
It’s only the end of the world,
What fate awaits at later dates? it was always written,
The fatal trait’s innate, mate, we lose for too much winning,
Bacteria in a test tube consume themselves to death,
They eat each other’s bodies and they breathe each other’s breath,
It’s their necessary destiny, death beckons eventually,
Spent vessels whose energy, quits the system as entropy,
Death follows life surely as night follows day,
All things that are living give up the ghost this way, life’s a
Pathology, with a 100% mortality rate,
It’s not just
biology, it’s the ultimate end of reality, mate.
The most persistent systems will inevitably perish,
This capricious existence is necessarily cherished.
The firmament’s impermanent; it’s certain there’s a terminus;
Curtains for both the verminous worst of us and for the virtuous,
Some see the setting sun and try vainly to race it,
Others just enjoy the colours, and embrace it.
Come dance with me,
Let’s watch the asteroids coming through the inky void,
Come dance with me,
There’s music in the air, let’s enjoy it while it’s there,
Come dance with me,
The world has turned to shit, so let’s make the most of it,
Come dance with me,
It’s almost the end of the song.
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4. |
Right Wing Trolls
03:42
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Right wing trolls like freedom of speech,
But fascists don’t practise what they’re keen to preach,
Alt right sites like hitting people’s triggers,
But they get highly uptight if you call them bigots,
Fools in school pick fights with others,
But when the bigger kids give ‘em shit they cry to their mothers,
Right wing parties like to push your buttons,
But call one of them a Nazi, they don’t like it up ‘em.
Right, there’s this myth being distributed, don’t know if you’ve encountered it,
About political correctness, how there’s an oppressive amount of it,
And those getting offended are inevitably left-wing,
And they whinge like bitches about the littlest things,
While the shining white knights of the – alt-right, is it?
That’s the new name for fascists now, just in case you’d missed it
They’re all reasonable people with robust self-esteem,
Simply exercising their right to freedom of speech,
Now, my one issue with this description, and it’s only a trifle
Is it’s about as accurate as Stevie Wonder with a sniper rifle
Right, I don’t know how many hours ago you fuckers were born,
But the right wing’s always had a huge thing for its outrage porn, like,
What the fuck’s the Daily Mail if not perpetually offended,
At the appalling barbarity to which the left has descended,
There was a green mohican on a Winston Churchill statue
Take a joke, you thin-skinned little reactionary prat, you…
Chorus
Also, let’s get a less subjective sense of perspective,
And inspect the very selective heavily-edited collective
Memory, in fact, let’s go back to the end of the seventies,
The golden era of punk and John Noakes and Dick Emery,
In suburban South Essex, which was fucking horrendous,
Imagine Waiting For Godot featuring the cast of EastEnders, anyway,
Where I was brought up, most brown people I met had got
Used to getting bricks through t he window and shit through the letterbox,
And the smirk of authority when they were hurt and attacked
Blind eyes to the fighting, all washed hands and turned backs.
And if you were non-white-British and you saw a George Cross flying
In a pub window, you knew that was a pub you might die in,
And family entertainment was violent racist policemen
Drunk drivers, who thump wives but they’re brave and they’re decent
Protecting the structural integrity of our cultural identity,
Pre-emptively punching anybody of a different colour or heritage,
You never knew what direction to expect it from next, always
Set to detect potential threats to your neck,
Yes, things have got better, but many still remember
When it was questioning prejudice that’d get you far worse than censored,
So just know, re: free speech, when you’re moaning on, vexed at
Anyone who dares question a comment’s context,
If you want the right to spit bigotry in the victim’s faces,
Don’t fucking whine hypocritically when someone calls you a racist.
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Team Sofa Royal Leamington Spa, UK
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