The news on Sunday morning

  1. Big dry river

Big dry river
Big dry river
Big dry river
In Madagascar

Put your baby on the scales
See how much she weighs
Maybe gain an ounce or two
In a couple of days

He gave his 24 children
Another empty bowl
They crowded round the visitor
Trying to fill the hole

They stopped you on the wayside
Asking for some bills
The shepherds looked like stick men
Come down from the hills

See them in the river bed
Digging for their thirst
The great dried river bed
Is lonely now it hurts

  1. If death were a river

I’ve got death
Banging on my door
There’s nothing here
You see I’m so poor

I think of death
Not of suicide
Death comes much slower
There’s nowhere to hide

As I grow older
The worse it seems to get
If death were a river
I’d be up to my neck

If death were a river
I’d jump right in and drown
No more, anymore
It all just gets me down

  1. forgotten fruit

What a contrast to the news I see
In the lonely empty streets
The funerals behind closed doors
The dead ones trying to speak

The lady on the news again
Dressed in glamourous clothes
People in the food bank
Where she never goes

Peak time TV whitewash
Don’t let us know the truth
Keep it in the closet
Like forgotten fruit

The trackers have no faces
As they crawl about the web
To seek you out and bite you
Now their social structure
Like a wasp’s nest in a tree
Like a cancer full of stings

  1. They roast me on a spit

They roast me on a spit
But the flames are crying
The fire light blinds them
So they cannot see injustice

The devil sends them his photograph
They put it on their wall
How do you tell them it’s a lie?
When they dream of him each night

5.

It’s an aching feeling, like a hernia
That I cannot put a name to
It consumes time, like a burning book
It’s a walk across a pebble beach

Love is like a slice of bacon
Its fat is burning, smoking like a chimney

Love is like a faceless chiming clock
A worthless body run over in the street

The false saints of Christendom
Are like bad screw drivers
Like rust that cover a dog

The policies of lies are driven
Into a pile up on the motorway
That’s how fear flies into a memory

Author: blackbird212012

I am interested in multimedia work: songwriting, art, and creative writing. I have been involved also in theatre and music performances.

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