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MP3's de CRASS

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Punk Is Dead (Live Perth, Scottland, 1981)   Lyrics

Major General Despair (From Christ the Album)  Lyrics

Arlington 73  Lyrics

Systematic Death  Lyrics

Smother Love  Lyrics

Acts Of Love Book


Yes that's right, Punk is dead, it's just another cheap product for the consumers head. Bubblegum rock on plastic transistors, schoolboy sedition backed by big time promotors. CBS promote the Clash, but it ain't for revolution, it's just for cash. Punk became a fashion just like hippy used to be and it' ain't got a thing to do with you or me.

Movements are systems and systems kill. Movements are expressions of the public will. Punk became a movement cos we all felt lost but the leaders sold out and now we all pay the cost.

Punk narcissism was a social napalm, Steve Jones started doing real harm. Preaching revolution, anarchy and change as he sucked from the system that had given him his name.

Well Iím tired of looking through shit stained glass, tired of staring up a superstars arse, Iíve got an arse and crap and a name, Iím just waiting for my fifteen minutes fame. Steve Jones youíre napalm, if youre so pretty why do , you smarm? Patti Smith, youre napalm, you write with youre hand but itís Rimbauds arm.

And me. yes, I, do I want to burn? Is there something I can learn? Do I need a business man to promote my angle? Can I resist the carrots that fame and fortune dangle? I see the velvet zippies in their bondage gear. the social elite with safetypins in their ear, 1 watch and understand that it don't mean a thing ,the scorpions might attack. but the systems stole the sting.



Crass "Major General Despair"

Itís fear that provokes nuclear war, fear that fuels the arms race. America seeks to stay in front, Russia wonít fall behind. Although each side can destroy each other many times over, both refuse to call a halt. It is in Europe where NATO plans to counter a theoretical Soviet assault with nuclear weapons if necessary. Flexible Response itís called/ We depend for our export trade upon selling one thousand two hundred millions a year of arms and thatís pure arms, thatís not the computers that go into repression/ itís not just the biggest epidemic of our times, but it wonít be cured until the patient recognises that heís sick.

 Weíre looking for a better world but what do we see? Just hatred, poverty, aggression, misery./ So much money spent on war when three quarters of the world is so helplessly poor./ Major General Despair sits at his desk, planning a new mode of attack, heís quite unconcerned about chance or risk, the Major Generalís a hard nut to crack./ Oh yes, he designs a cruise missile, tactically sound, operationally OK, while the starving crawl onto the deathpile, they canít avoid their fate another day./ Attack on the mind, but he calls it defence, but I ask you again whoís it for?/ Do the starving millions who donít stand a chance hope to benefit by his stupid war?/ Babies crippled with hunger before they could walk, mothers with dry breasts cry dry tears, and meanwhile Major General Despair gives a talk on increasing the war budget over the years./ How can they do it, these men of steel, how can they plot destruction, pain?/ Is it the only way they can feel, by killing again and again?/ Is it some part of themselves that has died that permits them to plan as they do?/ Or is it us that is dead, do we simply hide from the responsability to stop what they do?/ Thereís so many of us, yet we let them have their way, at this moment theyíre plotting and planning./ Weíve got to rise up to take their power away, to save the world that theyíre ruining./ Theyíre destroying the world with their maggot-filled headsm death, pain and mutilation, theyíve got the responsability of millions of dead. Yet theyíre still bent on destruction./ The general and politicians who advocate war should be made to wade in the truth of it, they should spend sleepless nights shivering with fear and by day time should crawl in the deathpit./ Theyíll find the truth of what theyíve done there, festering corpses they and their kind made, eyeless skulls that endlessly stare having seen the truth of military trade./ The earth was our home, the wind and the air, the blue sky, the grass and the tress, but these masters of war, what do they care? Only sentiments these./ Itís our world but through violence they took it away, took dignity, happiness, pride./ They took all the colours and changed them to gray with the bodies of millions that died./They destroy real meaning through their stupid games, make liaf a trial of fear./ They destroy what values we have with their aims, make us feel itís wrong if we care./ Welll, we do care, itís our home, theyíve been at it too long, if itís a fight they want itís beginning./ Throughout history weíve been expected to sing their tired song but now itís OUR turn to lead the singing....Fight war not wars/ make peace not wars/ fight war not wars/ make peace not wars.....

 war is a confirmation of the imposed reality in wich we exist. A constant violent reminder of the lenghts to wich those that impose that reality will go. We are prisioners within that reality until we create our own.


Crass "Arlington 73"

Their Arms have been stealed, Their Blood the oil of machinery. Their Bodies are tha balast of war, their souls are the blast of it. The Power, the truth of hope, The triad bodies of lost time. Too many to respect, too many to feel, too many to know, too many to remember, the distorted and the burned, and the scarded, and the torn, and the squash, and the cut, and the forgotten. Body and flesh and energy. The lust makings of the future not a case of preference in green banks in unseen battlefields. All paying tribute to such savage slaughter, those young boys have been denied the chance to realize how to become. They too may be standing here. I carry these bodies from the puppy fields. I lay them before you. Is a shame that you too shall rot


Crass "Systematic Death"

System, system, system.
Death in life.
System, system, system.
The surgeons knife.
System, system, system.
Hacking at the cord.
A child is born.
Poor little fucker,poor little kid,
Never asked for life,no she never did.
Poor little baby,poor little mite,
Crying out for food as her parents fight.
Send him to scbool. Force him to crawl.
Teach him bow to cheat.
Kick him off his feet.
Poor little schoolboy,poor little lad,
They'll pat him if he's good,beat him if he's bad.
Poor little kiddy,poor little chap,
They'll force feed his mind with their useless crap.
They'll teach her how to cook.
Teach her bow to look.
They'll teach her all the tricks,
Create another victim for their greasy pricks.
Poor little girly,poor little wench,
Anotber little object to prod and pinch.
Poor little sweety,poor little filly,
They'll tuck her mind so they can tuck her silly.
He's grown to be a man.
He's been taught to fit the plan.
Forty years of jobs.
Pushing buttons, pulling knobs.
Poor fucking worker, poor little serf,
Working like a mule for half of what he's worth.
Poor fucking grafter, poor little gent,
Working for the cash that he's already spent.
He's selling his life,she's his loyal wife,
Timiid as a mouse. She's got her li.ttle  house,
He's got his little car and they share the cocktail bar
Sbe likes to cook his meals,you know,something that  appea1s
Sometimes he works  till late so his supper has to wait,,
But she doesn't really mind cos he's getting overtime. .
He likes to put a bit away just for that rainy day,
Cos every little counts as the cost of living mounts.
They do the pools each week hoping for that lucky break.
Then they'd take a trip abroad. do all the things they can't afford.
She'd really like to have a fur. he'd like a bigger car.
They could buy a bungalow. with a Georgian door for show.
He might think 0! leaving work. but no, he wouldn't like to shirk.
He'd much prefer to stay and get his honest days pay.
He's got a life of work ahead. there's no rest for the dead.
She's tried to make it nice, he's said thank you once or  twice.
Deprived of any hope.
Taught they couldn't cope.
Slaves right from the start.
Til death do them part.
Poor little fuckers,what a sorry pair.
Had their lives stolen.but they didn't really care.
Poor little darlings,just your ordinary folks, Victims of the system and its cruel jokes.
The couple views the wreckage and dreams of home sweet home,
They'd almost paid the mortgage. then the system dropped its bomb.
Crass "Smother Love"
The true romance is the ideal repression,
That you seek, that you dream of, that you look for in the streets,
That you find in the magazines, the cinema, the glossy shops,
And the music spine you round and round looking for the props.
The silken robe, the perfect little ring,
That gives you the illusion when it doesn't mean a  thing, 
Step outside into the street and staring from the wall 
Is perfection of the happiness that makes you feel so small.
Romance, can you dance? D'you fit the right description?
Do you love me? Do you love me?
Do you want me for your own?
Say you love me say you love me
Say you know that I'm the one,
 Tell me I'm your everything let us build a home
We can build a house for twot with little ones to follow
Proof of our normality that justifies tomorrow.
Romance, romance .
Do you love me? Say you do,
We can leave the world behind and make it just for two.
Love don't make the world go round it holds it right in place
Keeps us thinking love's too pure to see another face.
Love's another skin-trapt another social weapon
Another way to make men slaves and women at their beckon.
Love's another sterile gift another shit condition,
That keeps us seeing just the one and others not existing.
Woman is a holy myth a gift of mans expression, .
She's Sweet, defenceless, golden-eyed, a gift of gods repression.
If we didn't have these codes for love, of tokens and positions,
We'd find ourselves as lovers still not tokens of possessions.
It's a natural, it's a romance, without the power and greed,
We can fight to lift the cover if you want to sow a seed.
Do you love me? Do you? Do you? Don' t you see they aim to smother
The actual possibilities of loving all the others?


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