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.
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.
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
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
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.
DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD. PUNK IS DEAD.
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
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.
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