Million Dead Album

It's time to celebrate, to come out and play
We've been counting down the days, this weekend we've got a bank holiday!
We're as sick with expectation as we are with what we're escaping

Lock up the house, load up the car
We've twenty-four hours to spend in a goddamn theme park
We are so grateful for our new state-funded stately pleasure dome

We just commute from one end of the conveyor belt to the other

Shock and awe and an over-priced gift-shop
You didn't have fun if you didn't buy the t-shirt
Paying through the nose so you can prick-tease your animal instincts

Art starts to imitate life in the factory
The factory's a prison, so art is seen to atrophy
All our days off in front of the TV instead of a stock screen

We just commute from one end of the conveyor belt to the other

Oh, the kids who would've led the unions in the past now grow up staying silent in darkened cinemas

If every hour that I have spent stuck in a circus was spent learning a language
I'd have so much more to say
And if every penny that I have spent on processed bread was spent on growing my own food
My skin wouldn't look so grey

Work and rest and play safe in the knowledge that this is the only way
The hand that feeds chooses the menu, but I'm a fussy eater
Work rest and decay

One commodity a day will keep subversive daydreams away

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 shoes.

I looked a little closer at the walls of my house,
and to my surprise they were made out of glass.
So I made my way softly towards my front door,
but to my surprise it was bolted shut and barred.

The bloodstream gets its sugar from the intestine
gets its sugar from the supermarket chain
that left the village drained.
Every high street the same soulless refrain.

I looked a little closer at the walls of my house,
and to my surprise they were made out of glass.
So I made my way softly towards my front door,
but to my surprise it was bolted shut and barred.

The newspaper reads like a list of charges brought against me.
So I'm changing my plea to an open address to the jury.

I confess that I was there on that grassy knoll,
and I confess I helped fake the moon landings as well.
But I confess I've yet to let slip my lowest low:
there've been times when I've pretended I didn't know about my skeleton.

Your honour I swear that I can explain;
there are mitigating factors to consider in this case.
I was looking out of a window to the west.
Francis Fukuyama took me by the arm,
won me over with his famous intellectual charm,
swore this beauty wouldn't do any harm.
We didn't look east because the sun was setting.

It's easy to lose yourself in the faintest reflection in the pane of a window.
I suspect that I've lost myself in the guilty reflection of the pain that it lets through.
I must confess I've started throwing stones around the house.
I don't mean to moan but I never even signed the lease.

The newspaper reads like a list of charges brought against me.
So I'm changing my plea to an open address to the jury.

I confess that I was there on that grassy knoll,
and I confess I helped fake the moon landings as well.
But I confess I've yet to let slip my lowest low:
there've been times when I've pretended I didn't know about my skeleton.

I am the small town lineman, 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 country criss-crossed out with coloured lines,
the city lies before me, another city sprawling out behind.

I am a frontiersman,
trapped in suburban England.

And since the Scramble ended, since the West was won on wagon trails,
it seems Mazzini's paradisiacal panopticon prevailed.
My walkabouts no longer take me beyond a choice of different gaols.
Why should I have to choose a state when every one of them has failed?

I am a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England.
And I promise not to overthrow the state
if allowed to redraw the atlas before I emigrate.

So I have sailed the seven seas alone,
trying to find a shore I can call home,
but all I found are different flags,
double-speaking diplomats,
and I do not have time for that.

So I'll declare my own sovereign state,
the borders based on the bottoms of my boots,
and I will open embassies wherever the hell I please,
and at assemblies you will see me sat but never on my knees.

I am a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England.
And I promise not to overthrow the state
if allowed to redraw the atlas before I emigrate.
And I'd gladly leave your Metternich's alone
as long as where I lay my head I can be my very own.

I am the Winchester lineman

I am a frontiersman,
trapped in suburban England,
but here I will not remain
I'll ride into the sunset,
my horse waits on the plain.
And I keep walking the line.

Honestly, why the hell are you standing there,
and what the hell are you waiting for?
Your expectant smile is starting to get on my nerves.
So tell me now, if you're so fucking rationalist,
so ruthlessly atheist, why the fuck are you a positivist? It doesn't work.
Because honestly, if you ignore the terminology,
mainstream political philosophy grew out of Christian teleology.
Despite the claims on the packaging, all the liberals and the communists, all the people making promises, are pigs to a man and their premises are all the same.

Everything is getting worse,
which hardly comes as a surprise –
no one guaranteed anything else,
so dry your eyes and pull yourself together,
because things will keep on getting worse.
The guys in white will never win,
and I doubt we'll ever heal the world.

But we can begin by learning how to deal with
the conflicts that arise between us, instead of pretending they'll go away.
It's better to light a candle than to fantasize about a sun.

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 beneath the dim street lighting
that I strained my eyes and lost the finesse of my fine hand-writing.
It's not like I need it these days – my letters home have been getting shorter.
I can't concentrate if I can't secure a source of clean water.
But there's never a drop to drink in the concrete furrows.
My anger is Vesuvius casting its shadow.

I spent too long walking across bridges failing to appreciate the sweating river's flow escaping,
leaving the city streets tinderbox-dry and oh-so-tempting.
My fatigue is San Andreas shuddering slow.

I mark my lintel with bloodstains
and dream of suburbs up in flames.

Every evening when I arrive back at home
and finally lock my front door,
Carthago Est Delenda,
and the pavements are beaches once more.
But in the morning when my alarm wakes me,
the concrete is back in its place.
As I trudge through the streets at the break of day,
it's the river that calls me away.

The river flows outside of town,
away from dirt, away from crowds,
and if I could follow it to the sea
I'd wash the sweat right off of me.
So break my legs and weigh me down,
throw me in, but I won't drown –
I'll float away, go down the stream.
The river flows outside the city.

Tonight will be the last night of my record-breakingly successful run in the lead role of the greatest play of the century.
Unprecedentedly warm praise from critics and public alike has met my portrayal of a man at his desk who gives a damn.

“Oh, oh, oh, if I could only see the clear blue sky from my office window,
oh, oh, oh, it would only take a steel grey day and I'd take my bow.”

And I'd like to thank all my friends and fans for always pushing me to soldier on. So one last time (for the cameras) my greatest soliloquy:

“Oh, oh, oh, if I could only see the clear blue sky from my office window,
oh, oh, oh, it would only take a steel grey day and I'd take my bow.”

To whom it may concern: I'd like to nominate myself
to receive an award as a small symbol of recognition
for my body of work – a lifetime of selling my body to pay the bills.
But my heart and my mind are mine, mine, you will not win this war – this is just a battle. Oh, oh, oh, well I've surrendered to my physical attendance here,
but no, no, no, you will not take my soul – let's we forget why I'm sitting here.

My letter to the human resources department says “You started a war so you'll get what you started.”
I'm only working here because I need the fucking money.

'You', 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 or elegant plan

And I’m paranoid, and I can’t help but think,
that somewhere someone is listening in
But all the words that I kept in my pockets, jotted down on supermarket receipts,
at base turned out to be solid masonry

And I’m scared of the kids who come to our shows,
and scared of the words that they seem to know,
because in truth all my high ideals are in ruins, in truth I don’t really know what I’m doing
Growing out of these clothes turned out to mean losing certainty

So sing, 'your' voices level the land,
my Jericho,
my rock and sure foundation!

Every love that made me lose my reasoning,
every line that made my conscience ache,
every day spent counting hours – well, none of them come close
to singing back a song inside my head
I always had a song inside my head

And yes, there are times when I am tired and stressed,
when I am hasty and I’m under duress
I’m a narcissist and I’m not at my best – I have to say I’m not impressed
Of all the things that I believed in my teens, I’m left with unread books and badly made zines…
Some might-have-beens that somehow even yet
bring a spring to my step

I remember calloused hands and paint-stained jeans,
and I remember safe-as-houses self-belief

So sing – 'your' voices are sure destruction,
my rock and sure foundation

And every line that made me lose my reasoning,
every chord that made my conscience ache,
every sound a memory… That’s all I ever need
I always have a song inside my head

You wouldn't know it to look at me,
but I'm a superhero
I've got x-ray vision and everything.
My frail frame belies my strength
I can lift tall buildings
with one hand tied behind my back.

But the morning after each episode
I wake up at home, alone.

Despite my mediocre looks,
I'm daily dared by damsels
to fight international crime.

In the end I always win the day
I save the world, I get my girl.
But the morning after each episode
I wake up at home, alone.

The comfort of knowing that
I've saved you all wears thin.

My superhuman efforts largely go unrewarded.
The government won't take my phone calls.

On my days off I hang around the centre of town,
but I don't get stopped.
But the morning after each episode
I wake up at home, alone.

The comfort of knowing that
I've saved you all wears thin.
The day after each episode
I wake up and wish that I
wouldn't be expected to get out of bed and help mankind.
I'd comb my hair a little differently and put on some glasses,
find somewhere to hide,
tell the United Nations they've got the wrong number and I'd live a quiet life.

And I'd live a quiet life.

How should I begin?
I find myself residing
at the dried out end of a dead history.
All my thoughts are dirt
scattered on a coffin,
and I a dilettante funereal spectator here.

How should I presume?
A besuited bourgeois mourner,
virgin to surrender and vivid sense,
I scour lichened stones,
desperately seeking
Daedalus's paternal secret of where we will land.

Well I was born with four fingers on each hand,
and with my eight fingers and my thumbs I do maths.

Once again, how should I begin?
I've started weak and I'm stuttering,
But I have remembered all my lines.
It seems that I have thus presumed
to talk of maths in front of crowded rooms,
but I'll make the two times table mine.

How should I begin?
I find myself residing
at the dried out end of a dead history.
How should I presume?
A besuited bourgeois mourner,
virgin to surrender and vivid sense,?

Calculus finishes me,
I don't follow trigonometry,
I've got nothing to add to algebra
the more complex functions I don't remember
But arithmetic
The absolute zero
is arithmetic on fingers and toes.

I have remembered all my lines,
and I'll make the two times table mine.
I will not presume, but I will thus begin.

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 you'll get cancer and then you'll die.
I can stop whenever I please and anyway,
I'm immune to emphysema and heart disease.
My diary says tomorrow is the day I quit
and I'm going to stick with that.

I'll work my way down to the end of this pack,
and then I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back again.

Little itches need no stitches but they bury you
if you keep on scratching you'll go right through.
Whiskey for the amputee is just the thing to ease the sting.

I'll work my way down to the end of this pack,
and then I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back again.

I've got a list of things to get round to.
I've got a list of all the things I shouldn't do.
I know it by heart,
I've got the damn thing in my pocket,
but despite myself it's the middle of the night and I am round at your house again,
trying to pretend that I am going to stop.
I'm either a smoker or I'm not
You will keep on smoking for the rest of my life,
and don't I know it:
my favourite fatal weakness.

I'll work my way down to the end of this pack,
and then I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back again.
I'll work my way down to the end of this pack,
and then I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back.
I'll see you around, somewhere in town,
or next time I'm down, probably right here

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 Allied ideals,
like a stable petroleum price and consumer choice.

Oh Lord won't you buy me any kind of car,
I've walked so far

Our few remaining parks
are being smothered by cinemas,
and the requisite stock of car-parks (it's not the same).
And our children will rejoice
in unbridled freedom of choice
of superstores and different brands of cultural decay.

Oh Lord won't you buy me any kind of car,
I've walked so far

You only get out what you put in,
and all that we pay is credence sincere at the altars of competition and desire.
All choice and no need makes Jack a dull economist.

They're selling ad-space on the subway walls,
and privatizing the tenement halls,
prophet and cause superseded by profit and loss.
They'd have Marshall's mustachiod face
staring down from every public place
if they taught honest history in schools and people knew who he was.

Oh Lord won't you buy me any kind of car,
I've walked so very far away from where I began.

Father my father, 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 world had some structure, a bedrock of honesty.

With this naïve outlook in mind,
imagine then my profound surprise when my eyes were opened to the reality
a world built on half-truths and Christian hypocrisy,
where left hands are wrung to deplore all our poverties,
while right hands dig shallow graves to bury the meek.

What have we learned?
“Do as we say, not as we do, and don't ask.” x8

Like the students at the Sorbonne in '68,
I've got a conundrum.
I and the letter of the law are agreed,
but the spirit's not with us in working
until “Everyone has everything they need”.

I know what I must look like
some kind of revolutionary
but I'm just trying to set some things straight,
to salvage that honesty.

Father, I've tried to follow you in what you say and what you do.
Father I've always followed you, I'm everything you wanted me to be.

When I grow up I want to be an engine driver.
I'll build up my own head of steam, 25 horsepower.

Old hands, new power,
more miles per hour
strange light in the ancient mills.
New sights, old eyes,
giant leaps under small skies
a sense of death in the hills.

But when I pull off, I don't want to follow timetables 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.
New sights, old eyes,
giant leaps under small skies
a sense of death in the hills.

The only thing that I will leave behind
is a simple trail, two stark parallel lines
that cut their way away across the land,
which our children will preserve but won't understand.

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 and I settle down,
I try to count the things that really count,
to figure out what I've done with the last few years.

And after all the struggle and the strain,
and after all the loss for little gain,
the harmonies have faded away,
but the melody remains.

I grew up in the countryside
there I could have lived, and I could have died,
I could have had running water and security.
But I took a train up to London town,
lost my money and immersed myself in sound
in lame jobs, late nights, poor diets and poverty.

And after all the struggle and the strain,
and after all the loss for little gain,
the harmonies have faded away,
but the melody remains.