Ever since world war two,
The planet is turned by an American screw.
Churning out your version of democracy.
An evil bureaucracy rife with hypocrisy.
What can an ordinary person do?

They get you one way or the other.
Have the planet on a skewer.
Cold war, Korea, Vietnam.
Follow history but don’t understand.
Unnecessary wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Drone strikes in Yemen and Pakistan.
Absolutely no respect for our fellow man.
What about the shame that is Palestine Israel?
Trade deals and embargoes that bring utter hell.

But the high tide mark has come and gone.
We are on to the American loaded gun.
You are aware of our dignified existence.
For we are united in our resistance.

War is the constant.
Humans are infant.
All on the same path.
What is your furniture pointed at?

Sitting in the corner.
Around everything you fit.
Using up all natural bandwidth.
Eternally ready for that one-way chat.
What the fuck is all your furniture pointed at?

Fuck it.
It’s nearly that time.
The jury is back.
Its working in the states.
Getting high and feeling great.
Mix it with the beer.
Takes away all the fear.
Legalize it.
Fuck it.
Isn’t it?

All people want,
If its not too much trouble.
Is a dignified existence.
Been sensing some resistance.
For everything’s seems fucked.
Bang out of luck.
Total Indifference.
And the thing lacking most.
Is a dignified existence.

The year was 1971.
Northern Ireland was far from fun.
Catholics were denied civil rights.
Many people decided to fight.
The army came for Dad one night.
A supposed member of the republican jihad.
The British government locked up my Dad.

To the H-Blocks or even Long Kesh.
A life behind concrete and wire mesh.
No judge or jury, only corrupt government.
That led to my Dad’s internment.

Did they treat you rough Dad?
Did they feed you properly Dad?
Did you miss my mum Dad?
Did you miss your family Dad?
These questions I asked him as he lay dying in his bed.
Answers to these questions he would not shed.
Such a man, so strong, so brave.
He took it all with him to the grave.

Packs of five, wooly, striped, toes like a glove.
Searching through the pile for the one that you love.
Under the bed, stuck to the shelf.
Your about to have sex with yourself.

Chain-smoking, overweight, sweaty spectacle.
Tearing up the gaff for your favorite receptacle.
3 and a half billion women do not flock,
To the house of William Wanksock.

The suits they do stare,
Much more than I can bear.
This fucking shit ain’t fair.
They were my best pair.
The C.I.A. stole my underwear.

Those boxers made me a goer.
Must of thought I was a whistle-blower.
Bringing me such pain.
Life-force starting to drain.
One thought however makes me smile.
Is them smelling my piss,
And possibly downloading this.

Harp lager. Booze fart in heaven.
Lager be thy name.
My drunken bum.
There will be fun.
In the pub at half past seven.
Give us this day our drunken spread.
And a look at some ladies ass’s.
As we headbutt those that steal our glasses.
And lead us into drug experimentation.
And deliver us from sobriety.
Amen.

You carried me for nine months.
Your little bundle of joy.
A mother’s love from day to day.
And you loved me anyway.

And then through my teenage years,
As I made you shed so many tears.
Teachers said I was nobody’s fool.
As I bounced through three secondary schools.
A mothers love that did not sway.
And you loved me anyway.

And as my behaviour became stranger,
Even putting my life in danger.
And you were the one who came and got me out.
After the first time the cops dragged me away.
For you loved me anyway.

What a shock it must of been.
Full on nightmare as opposed to a mothers dream.
Your only son thinking he was inter-solar.
As the doctors diagnosed Bi-polar.
The constant reminder day to day,
That you love me anyway.