I am one of the swans that I watch on the ice
and
being a swan is quite nice but
it's a bit of a ******* keeping my feathers fluffy and clean
and already the Winter,
I mean being a swan is quite nice
but it's a bit of a ******* when you slip on the ice and
you can't sit on your *** because your *** gets so numb.
Them ****** ugly ducklings don't make it any easier either.

Would Rip van Winkle wake up to this or
go back to sleep and
give it a miss?

What would he see?
an abundance, a rag tag of poverty.
A land full of **** all with a mountain of knowalls
and a system
blocked up with
the system that's ****.

Well,
we'll give him some time to get his
head around it and
realise that the world has moved on
more than a bit, then we'll slam him
with fees,because
no one can rest as they please
in this land fit for **** all.

Nothing suggests a protest more,
than the smashing down of one more door
and the picking up off one more floor of another fallen crown.
Smash things down
let them be rebuilt
(one more tilt at a windmill)
still
it's nice to dream.

I seem to dream an awful lot these days
cast my life away into a gaze,another one thousand yard stare
but no soldiers there just prison guards that walk around with us in our prison yard
and don't we take it hard ,when the door is smashed and we realise that what we see is just the same as it will always be,
the dumping ground
make no sound or you'll be targeted and found another place and in your place someone else will step into your prison cell.

It's nice to dream?
like hell,excuse me I don't feel so feckin well
we've all been *******,used and abused by selfish men
who promise freedom but only when and if they ever decide to decide and in the meantime hide away on south sea islands
where they play the altruist,
well it ****** me off no end and no end to this I see
no confiture for you and me
we'll have to eat the crusts of bread,dipped slowly in the bowls of gruel and how could fools like us be taken in
and fools we are for learning krap in krappy schools where education is dumbed down and more fool than that
we then went cap in hand to ask employment of the man
who lapped it up
slapped us down and paid us half a crown to make believe that we were Gods, able to buy those odds and sods and settle in for one more Winter night beside a fire that barely lit, and an outside privy where we would sit and shiver.

The only joy I ever had was poaching on Lord Sefton's private river
and who gave that fat swine the right to steal a river as if a river might be ever owned.

I moan a lot and groan a lot but never seem to have a lot
the cooking *** lays empty on the range
not strange
just the poor of days we're in.

One more grin
wipe behind my ears
pretend that I have shed no tears and go out to the tally man, to tally up and he can tell me what is due
I am the few
the many of many who haven't any
won't get much
a touch upon my shoulder,
'Excuse me sir, there seems to be a fishtail poking from your bag,come with me to jail,become one more old lag'
more than enough of them and more to come
start smashing doors let's have some fun
God knows we don't get enough.

Copycat syndrome.

We come back to this
the things that we longed for
and no longer miss.

Copycat syndrome.

Life fails,this I see and I think, let it be but the wheel continues turning where the home fires are still burning and this life should be for learning not for leaving.
I have followed flaming stars as they shot across the skies,leaving me with eyes so red and been led so far and wide,where I tried to make some sense,make amends,pay recompense,
and life fails me,what ails me so?
I am afraid to go where the moon takes her walks, in the heavens where she talks in infinite tongues.
I am afraid of the tomb where I'll comb through the galleries, not finding the pictures I seek,where the light leaks out slowly and my lowly existence is done.
Though life fails me, what tales I could tell and have heard,but the word,its potential is less existential,
as life drifts and then lifts me away.

Out from the base the green mist arose
The pain comes and goes.
Like the neon man
A flash in the pan.

Life is like that
For a cool,cool cat
But he can't keep pulling rabbits
From his old top hat.
He needs a bit of time to knit things together
Into a freshly knotted rhyme.
If you don't give him that
Then his world becomes flat and the corners are not rounded
Hounded here and hounded there in a neon mist that doesn't care
Because it's all typed in his head.
But on the baseline we presume to be dead
'til we're woken.
And we are spoken to in lyrics that inspire the inner spirits
To arise.

In the green mist neon dies and comes back in amber light
Fight this if you can
But we're all the neon man and we see the flashing crashing down
Into a sultry Summer brown.

A Yoruba girl came to town,Shivering slightly.
I held her tightly
Kissed her face.
Touched her hand
This woman from another land looked at me
And saw not an ocean but an inland sea so full of salt it made her bolt.
No rabbits in this hat
My life is full of things like that.

Don't leave the key within the lock
I've taken stock
I'm not that man.
Just the pan without the flash
The dot without the dash
No home,no car,no cash.
And after all of this and life like that
I'm just a rabbit in the old top hat.
And going home to have my tea
I see a reflection in the window
That used to be me.

If it's not the **** they keep emailing me
the police that keep tailing me
the system that's failing me
what is it then?
what can I see?

The absolute ******* they spread on the TV,
shows like Dallas or Dynasty
and god forbid it be
Jeremy Kyle because he'll be the
******* finish of me,
what is it I see?

There's a blind spot from blind Pew,
get one of those in your hand and
you're *******.

On the radio where I go on
a slow night
it's all *****.
Nothing new, **** all to do
minimum wage,
no wonder I'm blue.

The postman a third dan, some
judo, plays ludo with gusto and
I want to **** him for bringing me
bad news, black spots from
blind Pews of which there are many.

It'll go in the end or send me quite ******
if they stop with the **** mail and
the police tail and
let me fail
on my own.

Once again I find
the morning light breaks through
my eyes and wakes this sleeping mind,

it seems the dreams will have to wait
or shall I not cooperate?

Tschaikovsky Tuesday
is a nutcracker

I try to be PC
but it still breaks my *****.

When I get there
if I get there
I'll send a postcard
or a telegram

I need no internet
and informative technology
is not the thing
I want to be
or see
when I get there.

Good morning Mendelssohn
'tis not midsummer nor is it night,
dream on.

Suspended on my eyelashes
each moment flashes to
briefly burn

all things cease and here
on the plateau
I find again the stillness
wherein lies the peace.

Lightheaded on fumes
running on empty
through rooms and
nowhere to go.

I know something's coming
that's why I am running,
can't stand still anymore
or fight
'til I bleed or
batter down doors so
I'll batten down hatches
and run on
empty.

Incommunicado?
I can't tell of what
I know.

Padlocks on my tongue
to stop it running loose,
a noose around my neck
just in case.

Silence is tarnished by
oxidisation.

Shaving a matchstick.(pointless)

The future is set at thirty seven degrees and this I have read in the lees left in the mug,
so jug me a hare Doris while Boris brings forth a new Frankenstein
let's eat,drink and ****** what's left our our time here,switch all the lights on and let us drink wine dear.
Tomorrow we'll **** Jack and Jill and wipe out those **** tales we were told,like new lamps for old and rainbows with gold at the end,
bend into the bar dear and fill me a jar dear,tonight I do not want to think,let me sink into the pit where the corners are lit with the lights from the eyes that I see,Each degree takes me one way to another day filled with death and each wish that I wished for lays here on the damp floor covered in sweat.
We get what we wish for and sometimes we get more and others don't wish at all, and all roads don't go to Rome some vanish in the distance between the here and the getting,roads like lost wishes lay sweating on the floor.
so jug me a hare Doris,I'll go and call Boris,Frankenstein's coming for tea
I want him to see that there's **** all here for me, just one
more degree on the scale.

Why wear a mask?
you may well ask,

it's in the film script,
the one where you're
tipped for an Oscar.

Sometimes
life's about the bigger things
like,
when the Postman brings
a telegram
from Uncle Sam,
and sometimes
but only sometimes
the little things
are bigger

Weird I know
but as I sit or stand and watch my beard grow
it seems to tell me of my days spent in an alcoholic haze or drug fueled cruise down motorways without an end,
yet through all this,my beard has kissed my face as if I,the Angel, was just another case of ,
Mistaken Identity ,and the beard becomes me, like it's using LSD and has a mind not of its own,but oh my,
how my beard has grown
as I have too
and all I have to do is reconcile this beard that stares at me through the mirror,I can see it's not an easy task,
but I ask in all humility is should I shave it off or wait and see and let it grow and If I do will the beard I see become the man that's me or something more?

I watch the shadow,seven o-clock, there's a knock upon the bathroom door and then it fades away along another motorway and LSD has got the best of me again.

Niblicks

What do I know about golf?
Well,
let me see.
I know there's a club and
I think there you get tee
There's a hole with a pole
Though not from Poland,  it could be.
That's commerce

There's something worse
and that's a bunker
where apparently golfers hunker
down with a frown on their face, 'til
they get out of that place.

There's a five on the fifth and a three on the first
I've read the rules and I'm fit to burst with a thirst for the game
But then I read of their *****
and call me a ****
don't think that I need
my ***** to be whacked.
So it's back to the cluedo and ludo and do you know
I'm not sorry at all.

Young men
take their
hot pics for
a quick fix,

I mix my drink with soda
loada
******* really.

Seal me with cellophane
don't let me be so vain
I am not young
anymore.

I captured it all in
the fall of Saigon
I dreamt of it down
in Hanoi.

This thousand yard stare
looks at me
from
over there
and
everywhere
else that I see.

Shoot me full of ******
fire on me and
I'll go back in
to the storm
that I once called
my
youth.

I miss Buffalo Bill and Jersey Lil'
Jesse James among other names
Like Hopalong and Big John Wayne
Cooper,Cagney and,
What's that Indians name?
Oh yes
Cochise.
The man of war, the man of peace.

Jimmy Dean and Johnny Ray
Otis,Sammy and Doris day all yesterday
And yet
I bet there's no one quite like them
Not like Borgnine,Heston or Glen Ford.
Rememeber West and Ward
The caped crusaders
Or Roy Thinnes and the Martian Invaders?

I miss them all
The magic of the casting call and Lucille Ball.
Where did they go?
Moved on no doubt to another show and more greasepaint
Ain't life dull Without it full
Of these great stars.

Strip me down
and build
a
Kawasaki
from my
bones.

What if we were
translating Jerusalem
the walls and the holy men
following who,what and the why and when
then
translating Jerusalem.

A dapper dog in a wow bow tie
could not bark and did not know why
he tried to woof but what came out was puff
and he wandered off in a bow wow huff.

The man,
a blank stamped out by machines in Japan,
modified
rectified
passed as suitable for use.

Empty then topped up with interactions 'til blocked up,
plug pulled.

Re-issued
replaced
wires encased in
vanadium.

Faces in the auditorium,
murmurings in the gallery,
a star explodes in a distant galaxy
I know how it feels.

Every random seed feeds leads leading into the core
and the core is what blanks and men are made for.

The psychic was in any event
surprised, she looked into
her crystal ball, cast
a line of Tarot cards into
a deep blue tablecloth,
took my palm, to
read
between the lines of this life and
the silver sixpence which was insurance
for the things that happen
unexpectedly,


She read between the leaves
which formed a  leaf or
page
of
history and detailed things that only she could see but things I knew and told me of a drought to come, a plague, a heartbreak and some fun and Julie Hargreaves in the sun but that was back in '61 or maybe '62, she knew but wouldn't say and sixpence doesn't go so far,

The time declined my offer of a further reading and the psychic never said if
I'd upset or if there was some road where it was leading me and if so would it all end there.

Spend a moment and one more and every moment is the core of a moment yet to come, each minute moment as foretold, bold as brass and the psychic, such a pretty lass though she didn't see that herself and
couldn't tell me or wouldn't say and afterwards the passing of my day in Colliers Wood, felt good, felt fine, even though time had declined to interpret what was shown written in the lines upon my palm or in the bottom of the cup of cards.

I'm sure that time had meant no malice nor no harm, it's just a case of wait and see and what ever was and what will be and psychics drinking cups of tea and me minus a silver sixpence and none the wiser for the loss.

The lady that used to wait aside the wings
and sing to all
to let us know the show was done
has gone.

Moved to a farm in Saskatchewan
where as a second wife to Edward Stone
she inherited another life
another home
and she's much slimmer now
you wouldn't recognise the girl who used to sing
and bring the curtain down.

Three pigs,two cows,some hens and sows
and she just loves it so.
She wonders why she didn't go much sooner
why she was slow
and time was quick to take advantage of her looks.

She cleans and cooks but does not sing
for fortune has it that
might bring bad luck.

And clucks,how
she clucks among the hens
throws the corn collects the eggs
pecked once or twice upon her legs
all part of her new day.
She's glad,
she wouldn't have it any other way.
And Edward's such a lovely man
five foot eight
broad shoulders
and he usually sports a tan.
In Saskatchewan
the lady never sings.

Let Moses come to give me pills, break
the tablets of these hills upon my back and
Lot's wife on the track,
forever looking back and
turns to salted tears which trickle slowly
down across the years and surface
in some nursery rhyme.

This is not the time or place to face the demons cast from hell,
nor time to sell the rainbow coat,killed the goat or fatted calf,
this is the half life we've been waiting for,
the core of night pared with the cutting knife and in the shaft of light which bounces off the day of light
we may figure in the triple six.
I guess it's written down.
so it must be true.

Me like a likkle of what ya got

'Cause I a zero not got a lot

I talks to me pastor

'im a serious Judah rasta.

But me lives alone in this zone

I got to find I a way back home.

Me know me got life a wee bit wrong

And me never listen to da Masters song.

But now I got I a brand new deal

Me praise Jah 'cause 'im is real.

I gwan to church and say me tings

Jah he answer......me telephone rings.

Hello who' im dat? and 'im say it is I de righteous cat

Den I fall down and me tears dey come

But 'im say rise up man you is my son.

Den me knows dat dis is da time

Me knows me faith is bang on da line.

Jah Jah 'im see me right

Yea even thru de dark of de night

'im me saviour me know dat now

'im smooth da lines off from my brow.

Jah Jah rule.

Jah is cool.

What do you do when you're feeling so blue?
And you are under blue skies listening to the cries
Of the terns and the gulls.
The heart constantly pulls
Me to the oceans shore
Once there I'm not blue anymore.
I stand skipping the stones
Dreaming of lost sailors bones.
But it's the battles I love the most
Off the Cape of Good Hope or the Ivory Coast.
I can hear the cannons roar and see broadsides score
And I transport with delight into the thick of the fight.
I drink *** with the matelots
Take potshots at whatnots
Those enemies of the crown I say let them sink down
Into the cold arms of the deep
I will not lose any sleep.
But once more I find myself stood on the shore
And I'm soaked to the skin.
I hadn't noticed that the tide had come in.
I'm such a dreamer.

John Smallshaw  2011

Potage Parmentier, the smell of it everywhere and you just know that the summer is here,
cool ginger beer and a dip in the pond, though I'm fond of the beer and not so fond of the pond,
an ice cream cone, days away from the home and the smell of ozone by the sea.

All things that mean a summer to me.

In effect
I am the pause, clause three four D
you'll find me sandwiched silently below clause E,above clause C,because freedom does not have a say in what we do or where it stays and this was written,though later stricken,in clause three of what the hell's this all about,you can't write life upon a page and expect to garner love or rage from simple words,
nor can you type disease and pain in Indian ink and think that some would understand the hand of God,the mind of man.

In effect what we get is what we feel and freedom deals the occupants of third class carriages with champagne and deals some the cards that look the same but are tied in milestones marking out the years of pain,
it's a lottery but chance will play no part in where we're born or from whence we start and the clause quite clearly states,
that freedom dissipates the longer that one lives.

Which gives no room in which to lodge complaints,that room was taken by the homeless man maneuvering as best he can through the formal infrastructure of the plan that was placed in place for him.
In effect, the plan was ******* before the ink was dry upon the lips that measured out the sentences and the thought that anything could come from adding numbers to the sum of each or any of a thousand to the power of ten
would have them adding up again the do's and did not's,the dotted i's,
and all of this
when teatime lies around the corner of the clock.
I stand mute.
I am the shock wave that planned and failed,I now blow wind into the others sails and take applause.
I am the clause
Three
Four
D.

Time,
and time being our greatest asset
what do we do with it?
we
pass it around like a bag of
Maltesers,
it eases the pain but puts time
out of joint.

Let's face it
if
time is curved like space it
comes back
doesn't it?

Don't we recapture those
moments when rapture was
moments away?

Play time
school time
home time
work time and time
to grow old
with a mouthful of
chocolate.

In this great big world wide knitted spiders nest
I wear a medium size long sleeved silken vest

If you can't beat them join them

Interfaced with a fascia on a blank screen
crissed cross veins on my eyes in a bad dream
and it's Friday so where is the ice cream?
I'm not playing this game
anymore.

Inactive action men
Barbie murdered Ken
and then Teddy ran away
I'm not playing this game
anymore.

Captain Scarlett got old and now he's captain Blue
the Avengers have avenged
and now what can do they do?
Tom Thumb grew up
Tin-tin threw up
the peaceniks blew up the past

If I last until this morning's through
I know exactly what to do
but
I won't be playing with anyone and especially not with you.

Between the pages are the lies that rise up when you least expect and change the plot,
just, when you think you've got the gist
you find there's something that you missed and the story's back to front.

There's a party going on next door,which started about five before the hour of four and I am really cheesed off and sore that the neighbour (the little ****) didn't see fit to invite this boy so he could enjoy a jive or the twist or a tango,a slow dance,a chance for a whirl with a girl, so I shall complain,
if he doesn't invite me there'll be no parties again,he can do as I do and listen to BBC radio two.

Back to the book because that's all I've got and some cold beans with spinach which I left in the *** for my tea ,don't worry about me I'm on chapter three and there's eight more to go,
and what do you know,there's a knock on my door and my very nice neighbour says,
'there's a party going on, what are you waiting for?'
Now I feel dumb,the noise abatement society will come and it'll be all my fault,so I say thanks for the invite, decided to stay in for the night,close and bolt my door and with my head in my hands
progress to chapter four.

The ideosyncrasies of the cities are not
found in the small towns,
the dirt poor brown towns,
the twitching of curtains and dressing gown towns,
but the **** pulls us out of the towns and into the city where the
sewers are home to the rats and the mountains built up on
the streets are a home for the cats,the fat cats,the purring cats, the sharing caring who am I kidding cats,
they are the leeches
weekdays in suits and the weekends in knickerbockers,breech loaders,the feeding free loaders,the gum boot brigade,tea,toast and marmalade,raid the pension accounts and they get an accolade brigade.
The small town mentality will be the death of me,I can see this is wrong but go along with it,up to my neck in it,with paddles I row in it,
the city is full of ****..


The cranes,
new age pterodactyls, chomping their way through the last of the daffodils,sending them downstream to a landfill in East Cheam,sometimes if I dream,I dream in black and white and the city then looks alright but in my heart I know it's crumbling,falling apart at the seams,held together by nightmares and more dreams from the townies,cub scouts and brownies,I don't dream a lot anymore.

They've all been naughty boys
so
we take away their playtime toys, but
cabbages can make such lovely kings with
brussel sprouts for diamond rings,
they've all been naughty boys.

Images that toy with me,
the boy inside can see
the future's not what it was meant to be,
no coco pops or jam for tea,
they've all been naughty boys.

Marshmallow mist
as if the sun
kissed
a daffodil.

I will remember
each morning anew
every time
I see the
daybreak
with you
at
my side.

Marshmallow mist
and the sun
kissed
me.

Send me rockets
let me fill my my pockets with resistance to explode in lights across the desolation of this land of nights
and send me guns to run across the border fence where sits the old guard in defence of this,that once was home.
Send me fire to burn the towns and clowns to laugh like maniacs of which we have become,
and water to flood the thirsts,the first of many and sun to dry the dampened land.
Send me a band of hungry,homeless men then send me stones to build their homes.

Fill my cup up to the brim,let me swm in opulence.

In defiance of the crown I proclaim this town along with others as my property,I demand from them my total liberty,not the washed out freedom that we think as being free where rich men with their plaudits try to laud it over me and put me down
This is my town,my land,my band of disaffected vagabonds and to set the record straight,we're going to take it back,
we're going to attack the citadels,we the infidels are going to tear them brick by brick,we're going to make them sick of us
we're going to make them go.

The rainbow fell into the consommé,
the night turned the day and the
cards went my way
it was normal some say in
the madhouse

and then there was work
the foibles, the quirks
the bright sparks
the gormless
the sharks

and while Hawkin's talking of quarks
and quasars
all I get
is quizzical, looks from the
bar staff and waiters.

It's no wonder the soup's getting cold
and less wondering why
because it all seems so old
or could be it's
possibly me.

At the clog end of the night
when
daylight is tapping time
and the drummers in my heart
are marching slowly in a line
and my eyes begin to open on
the newness of the day,

I pray to see it through until the end.

The night flopped over the chimney tops
and dripped from the guttering as
the day broke through in spots
I could hear the house martins sing.

The radio sizzled, the
bacon crackled,
on the range was a pan
full of porridge from the
morning before.

Boots by the door which were itching to go
everything's slow when you want to go fast but
at last we were out on the last day of the world,(a
game that we played where zombies were real and
they were coming for us to make of us a meal)

Each day is a  bonus where the onus to be, is
the King of all castles, the Queen of all seas and
to seize with both hands the hands of all friends.
The day ends with a call from,
Mother, you know,
everything goes fast when it ought to go slow.

It all disappears
replaced by a phantom,
the flickering light of a coal miners lantern casts its shadow along the black halls and it all disappears.
Bevan would spin in his grave knowing his lads could not save what remained of his dream,
and in the lean light of lamplight the nightwatch calls midnight,
and it all disappears.

We were born into a world that exploded with light emitting diodes,and nuclear power,turbines that whine in constant revolution,
a green world, a clean world, a world fit for tomorrow where the future is born from the ashes of sorrow and these tears we would borrow from the seeds that we sow ,
and it all disappears in the fears of the many,of those, who if they had any hope,have it no more,where the door is locked and the bolt is drawn against this brave new dawn,and sometimes it feels like I never was born ,
but created from eggshells and no one tells me that I'm wrong.

Cracked open my breath breaks away, and the inside exposed,peeled like the petals that rose on some bloom,the shrivelling doom, a vast mushrooming cloud,
and it makes me feel proud,
as it all disappears and we all fade away.

It is calming here where the banks slip slowly down
to the river side
and the tide is on the turn,
and though it yearns to reach its sea,it takes time to whisper the secrets of longevity to me.
A curlew knew me too as I sat here,but
it flew away holding the secrets that it would not say.

She returns to me along the river and in each tide I'll be
that much closer to the
sea.

I want to bend like a reed with the seaweed below and flow with these tides that I know,
I need to sleep in the deep
not sowing
not reaping
just sleeping
forever.

I gave it up for lent
or whatever went before
and I don't think it anymore
well not so's you'd notice
but if a kiss is just a kiss
why do I miss it so?
Ah
old men and pipedreams
where it all seems so long ago
and long ago is where the old folk go
to talk their tales.

The outlaw Josey Wales had no time for that
flat out on the badlands with his big sixguns in two big hands
I wish I were him
life here is grim
like in a Northern town
where the Moon rises and never goes down
where the Sun can't be found
and daylight never touches the ground
and the soot is something we cook with.

I give notice here and now that somewhere,somehow
I will shine
or sail off in a dhow to no man's land
and will my life away in a shotgun shell
Life here is hell.

I
in my instability cannot see
what's in front of me
and irrationally
I think I'm in a bind
blind to all these other things that this good life brings
but not wise enough or even tough enough to tough it out.

About ten o-clock
when I have taken stock and the food is running low
I go again to the corner shop where I take a pop at Majid and his fancy prices
I tell him rice grows in the paddy fields
he yields and lets me off for sixpence.
I feel so grand as if he'd broken wind and kissed my hand
and now I go
before the police arrive
can't survive on bread and water
ask my daughter
she feeds me when I hunger for
chop suey from the Chinese store.

All this with just one thought
one kiss
I ramble on
Life has gone and passed me by
I try with *****,coke
a smoke or two
and it doesn't do it
life here is ****
but I remember down the pit with props and pony
only I could tolerate
second rate is what I got
not a lot but it will do
until the life I have is through
but had I been the outlaw Wales
I would have told such different tales
and life is but a coffin full of nails
awaiting on the hammer.

Morning arrives..
..through the night I survived on data streams.
The dreaming in unconscious thought.
And along that super highway I have bought another day.

Somewhere in the thick of it..becoming sick of it..
..I tried to close it down and failed.
Not jailed or free..my thinking's taking over me
I shall be standing by to see
What comes next.

The postman
walks past
my house
texting
home.

I have an idea that being stood
under here is
not the best move that
I've made.
Girls are passing me by but
big boys don't cry
so
I'm going to go fishing
instead.

The cut-away gene
The one that allows you to cut away from a scene
To enter into any dream.
That cut-away gene.

We all have one and none are free
The gene allows us to be
It and me.
Do you see how it works?
How it lurks in the corners of the corners where you stand
And cuts away a tiny portion of each day
Until the day is gone.

I long for the moment when I pass away in the cut-away scene
Of the cut-away gene.
Will it seem so de-regulation
To cut away the strings that bind me to this station
And to float?

Could I cut away these scenes that come haunting me within my dreams
Is that what the cut-away genes are for?
Would I dig away until I'm sore
Until I reach the very core of this existence?
And should I,in my persistence cut away too much
Would I touch the heavens with my mind?
This is a kind of madness that I see
When all around,none are free
And we are the genetic bought and sold
Another kind of gold.

The cut-away gene will outlive me
And see much more than I could hope to see
But whether it can remember or not is the question that I've got
Does it have soul?
What is its goal?
Can we ever be sure that the cut-away gene is truly pure
Or a hybrid?
A get rich trick?
A gene so sick it makes me sick and quick let's run
The cut-away cuts away the sun and we are blind
Another kind of nightmare scene
Dream
Within the night of the cut-away gene.

Same old, same old
nothing changes.

Corporations corporating while
the poor men scrape a living.

New lamps for old tramps?
I don't think so.

We're being force fed by the mega men
who do it as they please and when the
poor complain
they do it, do it and do it again.

Same old story
different book,
wonder why I
give a ****.

Nothing changes
never will until
the corporations stop incorporating
and
give the poor men recognition.

When I'm dead and gone
the mega men will still be here,
will still go on,
nothing changes just remains
like unwashed sheets
and ***** stains.

But where there's life there's hope I hope
or is this just a hopeless quest to
do our best and
die.

Yahweh Yahweh

Hear as I say

A crumbling rock is I as I stand

All points of the compass lies the sinking sand

And as bits of I fall

Jah, hear as I call.

For the Saints and the Angels

The knights of the round table

The prophets of old

The wise man with his gold.

The heathens the sinners

Enslaved cotton spinners.

The trumpeteers

The cannoneers.

The old blues players

The Christian slayers.

For Peter for John

I need not go on

And as they arrive

To watch this demise

Hear me.

Repentance I cries.

Yahweh Yahweh.