COMMON ENEMY

What a pure, provocative dream to share,
what an awe-inspiring view:
a police cruiser overturned and burning on each avenue.
Can you see it aglow?
Shall we give it a go?
Shall we tell the pigs what for and score one for the horror show?

They beat us over and over and over,
they kill our children again and again,
they cover up every crime behind the thin blue bloodline,
our common enemy.

Does the thought fill you with antipathy?
Does your heart beat red white and blue?
Are poisoned by the patriotic propaganda, too?
Will you lick every boot?
Give a gun to a brute?
Will you arm and send a fool to settle every last dispute?

They beat us over and over and over,
they kill our children again and again.
How can they serve and protect? They're a self-serving sect,
our common enemy.

You say you’re one of the good ones.
I’ll save my praises for the good ones who refuse to lick the boot.
Can there be any good ones?
Can’t the tree bear only poison when it’s rotted at the root?
So you wanted a good job,
now you carry a gun and draw on anyone who doesn’t listen well.
They say you’re doing a good job,
when you’re serving the sect that you protect with every clever lie you tell.

They cover up every crime behind the thin blue bloodline.

EVERY DAY’S A WALL

Every day’s a wall, every day’s a wall, every day’s another wall to fill.
We can fill em all, we can fill em all up, if we don’t fill em someone will.
Fill em with your team, fill em with your name, fill em with your symbol, tell em why you came.
Every day’s a wall, every day’s a wall, every day’s another wall to fill.

Every night’s a feast. Every collar stiff, everybody with their clobber creased.
Body of a christ, body of a christ is the body of a burning beast.
Barely holy host. Sacramental wine. Color on the street. People feeling fine.
Every night’s a feast. Every collar stiff, everybody with their clobber creased.

Beat the drum. Victory. Here we come. Who are we?

We’re the Spray Cans, blue and bleeding on the street,
the smile is wine-stain red, the body’s wafer-thin, come eat.
Spun out and splattered, what’re we gonna do?
If you don't know, we don't know too.

We’re the Spray Cans, blue and bleeding on the street,
the smile is wine-stain red, the body’s wafer-thin, come eat.
Spun out and splattered, what’re we gonna do?
Turned out and tattered, rattling up a few
half empty spray cans, police pursuing you and me.
Stigmata ten feet tall, the walls all bleed ACAB!
Shipwrecked and shattered, what’re we gonna do?
If you don't know, we don't know too.

JUST ANOTHER TUESDAY

They tell us, “Don’t trust what you hear.”
Day after day, year after year.
They tell us, “Trust in a new day,”
but it’s just another Tuesday.
We can’t wait to seal our fate on the weight of a paper religion.

They tell us, “Don’t trust what you see.”
Whatever, sounds alright by me.
They tell us, “Trust in the nation,”
but it’s just a liquidation.
We’re in line to kneel and dine on the brine of a paper religion.

Why don’t we clarify the subliminal?
Who’s the cleric in disguise and who’s the criminal?
The delusion is incredible,
what we praise and what we call heretical.

We’ve been kneeling at the foot of the bed for a bit of bread,
but we’re overfed.

We’ve been waiting at the end of the line for a better sign.

SLUMLORD

Slumlord, there’s mud tracked on the floor.
In the hall, there’re bloodstains on the wall.
And you’re gonna make it right, you’re gonna paint it white,
cover it up, you’re gonna raise the rent.

Slumlord, think what you could afford,
if you switch to charging by square inch.
You’re gonna break my will, you’re gonna have your fill,
you’re gonna put a notice on my door.

Look at this, a hole shaped like a fist.

My adored, don’t fall on your sword.
We can’t win, but we can move you in.
You’ll be one more, together we’ll be poor.
And free of sin, the landlord wins again.

Slumlord, it’s crowded in the ward.
Like a tomb, there’s three to every room.
You’re gonna keep us dry, long as we qualify,
long as we give you everything we got.
We got gnats, cockroaches, fleas and rats.

My adored, don’t cut the final cord.
We’ll leave town, where the cost of living’s down.
I hear good things, about Saratoga Springs.
I tried to flee, but there’s no work for me.

My adored, don’t fall on your sword.
We can’t win, but we can move you in.
You’ll be one more, together we’ll be poor.
And free of sin, the landlord wins again.

LORDS THEME

The Lords have a tradition to raise a sacred light,
to sing about the time our elders called Eternal Night.
The ancient throne was empty, a power vacuum formed,
when cutting throats in bloody moats and chaos was the norm.

Oh, the dead and dying
under the moonlight were laid.
The streets were paved with the bones of the brave,
betrayed by bastards, pretenders and gnaves.

George and the Lords, what are we fighting for anyway?
George and the Lords, who are we dying for?
George and the Lords, what's worth uniting for anyway?
George and the Lords, who are we crying for?

Just as all was hopeless, an underdog appeared
to lead the way to better days and free us of our fears.
We crawled out from the shadows, a humbled humankind,
we won't forget the lessons of the mess we left behind.

Oh, the scene was stumbling,
no one did nothing but bleed.
Our queen came home and took the ancient throne,
that woman saved us when no man could lead.

George and the Lords, what are we fighting for anyway?
George and the Lords, who are we dying for?
George and the Lords, what's worth uniting for anyway?
George and the Lords, who are we crying for?

Our queen.

TONGUE OF A TRAITOR

To go where pretenders go,
to know lowly kings,
we would kiss goodbye our beloveds,
and golden rings.

To see what usurpers see,
to read a decree,
we would give our souls if we had them,
and happily.

Sooner or later, they’ll have your crown, they’ll cut you down with the
tongue of a traitor, just look around, this aint yer town no more.
It seems like another place, it feels like a dream,
waking up, it aint such a nightmare as it would seem.

They crawl and claw until they fall into a mask of dignity,
then live like deceivers still.
When they fall, I hope they fall into glory,
but I don’t believe it, I don’t believe they will.

Sooner or later, they’ll have your crown, they’ll cut you down with the
tongue of a traitor, the town you knew, is drowned beneath the blue.
So flow with the knowing tide, and go where you may,
sink or swim the unfortunate fathoms, or drift away.

They might fall, they might find glory.
I don’t believe they will.

INSOMNIA

Every day’s all wrong
and the nights are over before they begun.
It shouldn’t take so long
for the struggle to end and salvation to come.
It doesn’t make it alright
but I know you can put up a fight.
Raise hell tonight.

The glory days have passed.
We was at our worst when they was around.
The good times don’t last
and the nights burn fast in the fire we found.
I doesn’t make it okay,
but I know you can still make me pay,
and I’m hoping to open my arms and catch hell tonight.

Harlem wasn’t quite right
and Hollywood’s got bite.
You can’t sleep at night,
and if I catch hell, I’m gonna hold tight.

Every day’s all wrong
and the nights are over before they begun.
It shouldn’t take so long
for the struggle to end and redemption to come.
It doesn’t make it alright
but I know you can put up a fight.
And the whole world’s opening up. I’m hoping to open my arms and catch hell tonight.

COLD

It’s getting cold again, the roaches and the rodents are retreating
down beneath the brickwork buildings where the rich have central heating,
and the fleeting, lusty luster of this lost and lonely city’s
getting old again – it’s getting cold again.

And the snow burns, and the wind bites,
and your smoke won’t light,
but you won’t go down without a fight.
You better try to get inside before you die,
but the landlord’s warm tonight.

It’s getting cold again, the snow is gathered high along the river,
and there’s nothing more to do for some than hang around and shiver,
and the sad and sullen stories of the destitute undead
will go untold again – it’s getting cold again.

And the moon falls at the sunrise, and the days repeat.
And your feet ache, and your throat’s dry, and you taste defeat.
And the snow burns, and the wind bites, and the rats retreat
as you step over the bodies on the street.
You get inside and turn the thermostat up high,
and you’re sweating from the heat.

It’s getting cold again, the wicked winter came without a warning.
Now my constant contemplation meets the distant dawn of morning.
Will the menacing complexion of the dark and dreary sky
yet turn to gold again,
it’s taking hold again,
days will unfold again,
it’s getting cold again.