6/ Who Rocks England Now?

6/ Who Rocks England Now?

Who rocks England now, you cow, you dog, you wolf, you whore
Knocking on the door of the law of love – who rocks England now?

Who rocks England now, you smug jug on a silk rug by the fire of dire corrosive heat where the feet of angels stamp their feet in disgust at the blood and lust married in a church of rust.

Who rocks England now? You pigs, you wigs and Tories, Mr Biggs all trampling on blood and stained four-leaf clover standing on the chalk-white cliffs of Dover singing “Who are you kidding Mr Hitler if you think old England’s done” for fun while ladies in white dresses run from the maniacs we’ve become.

Yea, who rocks England now you bum who lives by the sun and backs war and buys his pleasure from a foreign backdoor. Yea, who rocks England now you scum you son of gun, you bum.

I ache for all time, I pain, I see the love going down your drain in stitches and sutures embroidery stitches. Yea look what you’ve become.
Just look you, mad hatter, just look.
Just look what you’ve become.

Yea who rocks England now you turd you bird of prey who prays all day for a perfect system to pave the way so you can keep your mansions, palaces, worldly wisdom’s tampons filled with blood and I ask what for so what. Yea who rocks England now?

It’s not your mother it’s not your sister it’s not your lover. It’s some strange world of another weather of steel and leather.
Who, who, who, who?
Who stupid dark destructive fool
Who rocks England now?

During the war, you were such a bore thinking more of the cricket score
Times were dull; death was cheap who lives who’s taken a foreign street
And out we came from that tunnel of hate madder than bulls loose a slaughterhouse
When the lights turned red and the BBC read through the football pools we
Drifted like sheep in the clouds of sleep
And awake to this technology and piss
Which is what goes down the drain at night
All the spittle all the spite the sex and drugs the lonesome cry
Of the suicide who doesn’t want to die
As the church is filled with the words of love
Of homosexuals, paedophiles and demons from above
And what do you care you got what you want
You middle-class bastard you working-class runt
You upper class snivelling fame-seeking whore
Who rocks England now?

Halleluiah, Britannia

Here in my isolation with my broken tattooed mind
Across the road from paradise with the love I’m trying to find
I see the marriage in Cana from the stop across the street
As if time itself had hit me in my drowning broken teeth.

Yes and England, you’re a long way down the road
Way ahead with your windows on the shoulders of the poor
Your rolling stock don’t pass this way no more
And I stand here on this crossroads screaming floor.

I’m looking up to heaven I suppose that’s what it is
I’m seeing the kind of vision that your grandfather slept with
Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at your shore
But you cling to the economy and to war.

I pick up my right foot I leave the wedding songs behind
I pick up my left foot and go where England cannot find
The guests of the party dancing or the miraculous vats of wine
Across the road in another patch of time.

Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at your shore
But you cling to economy and to war.

Yes and Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at your shore
You struggle to survive the world’s fast-changing law
While the song thrush sings bravely on your highest telephone wire.
The jet plane comes screaming through broken cathedral spire.

Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at your shore
But you cannot follow those ancient feet no more.

2004

Here in my broken tattooed mind

Here in my isolation with my broken tattooed mind
Across the road from paradise with the love I’m trying to find
I see the marriage in Cana from the stop across the street
As if time itself had hit me in my drowning broken teeth.

Yessan,  England, you’re a long way down the road
Way ahead, with your windows on the shoulders of the poor
Your rolling stock don’t pass this way no more
And I stand here on this crossroads screaming floor.

I’m looking up to heaven I suppose that’s what it is
I’m seeing the kind of vision that your grandfather slept with
Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at your shore
But you cling to the economy and to war.

I pick up my right foot I leave wedding songs behind
I pick up my left and go where England cannot find
The party guests dancing or the miraculous vats of wine
Across the road in another patch of time.

Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at your shore
But you cling to economy and to war.

Yes and Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at you shore
You struggle to survive with the world’s fast changing law
Your song thrush sings bravely on your highest telephone wire.
The jet plane comes screaming through broken cathedral spire.

Halleluiah, Britannia, with Jerusalem at your shore
But you cannot follow those ancient feet no more.

England, your needs bear down on me

England, your needs bear down on me like the wall of a museum.
I gave you a trickle of gold,
You forged it into an idol and asked for a new religion.
I made a road of smooth green tarmac in the wooded hills of my soul
You bulldozed it over and asked for Monopoly
I had a city in my childish heart,
You wanted dead sharks in glass cases.

England, must I first prove my relationship with your god
Before I can sleep in peace?
Your god who melts like a muddy idol in a fast flowing spring filled mountain stream
And then becomes a famous city.
I wanted to be Walter Raleigh exploring the fabulous new world,
You wanted to fill your coffers with treasures.
I wanted to be Vincent Van Gogh in a fabulous voyage of paint,
You wanted a filing cabinet of application forms.

England, how much taller can you get now
Scraping the earth of its glory yet afraid of its light.
I wanted to be a native of that earth following the track of a strange new bird
To discover its name carved in the rock walls of time.
You beat me and made me walk into origami mazes,
You took my dreams and turned them into digital code,
Then you buried them under Parliament
Strangely you scream at me like a furious church gargoyle.

Give us the last razor blades off your tree and cut your throat and bleed and give us the blood to display in a whitewashed gallery.
But as you are rising up on your house of cards over a flame of anger the phoenix flies to freedom.

2004

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