Twelve new blackbands, six in each hand
out of the heads; heads of blitz
that in the words of that folk singer whose name I forget
contemplate, and meditate and speculate for you,
and bring new weapons for your washing machine
to show where you've been and where you're at;
let Elvis Presley be the diplomat
and the boys and mum nosh at the Lotus house,
while ten noodles of truth, red-eyed and grimm;
put today into chords for the hords,
of that left wing fanatical movement
that moved into a bigger compound
and touched every bit of blood-stained land
that rose above the sea, a children's castle
made of bricks, and stone and steel and oil
and people whose minds in today's turmoil
blew down the bricks around them.
Hey, didn't you know that there's a war on?
Ray Coleman is slamming the folk fakers
but we have no message to our sea of faces
of destruction and riots in downtown Paris;
and war in uptown Iraq,
or who really killed that soldier of peace in Dallas a year or ten ago,
in this world where minds have overtaken reason
and every thought is of potential treason,
the only message about this new eepee
is lets live to all enjoy it.
And in the words of my local parson,
If the bomb does go off, make sure you get higher than the bomb,
It's the only way to go
and why not take this disc along?

The Blitz EP