faction to change the constitution
They should take their allegations to the institution.
So we took our allegations with a big bag of patience
Before we even met we felt the pain of prejudgement.
So we set up a meeting and gave the standard greeting
And if vibes could harm us we’d have got a good beating.
But the minutes were restricted and the picture they depicted
Was nothing but a smutter of the things we had presented.
But onward we went with constructive intention,
Keeping our strengths from personal friction.
But keeping the prevention of personal pretension
Was keeping construction in total detention,
Resulting in destruction and bad vibrations.
And a cut in the bag that was holding the patience,
And a cut in the bag that was holding the patience,
And a cut in the bag that was holding the patience.
Englabetween
Between the empty cans and dustbin lids,
Between the eyes of cats and tramps,
Incubated drunks mumbling incomprehensible bids,
Crashed out under yellow water lamps.
This is England, I said, on a soap box in the street.
What Have We Got
We’ve got a mountain on the horizon,
A sun on the floor,
The sea in the sky,
And the devil behind the door.
We’ve got a desert in a lake,
Islands in the city.
We’ve got the moon which is a fake,
And a bomb which is a pity.
We’ve got the stars when it’s light,
Silence when it’s not.
We’ve got friends, but they fight,
And what have we got?
We’ve got brother in the sky,
Sister in the sun.
Everybody’s getting high
Yet no one’s having fun.
We’ve got the rainfall,
We’ve got the snow.
Our sisters and brothers we call
And what do we know?
We’ve got a mountain on the horizon,
A sun on the floor,
The sea in the sky,
And the devil behind the door.
Moods of Rain
Rain twisting down the air poles
Like a broken river.
Slicing through the air. Cold
Biting me, I shiver.
Get your Manchester Evening News.
Soggy paper, running print,
I’ve got those winter dark blues.
Wet, cold, and skint.
The rip in the side of my pocket
Lets trickles of rain tickle the palm of my hand,
The picture distorted and wet in its locket.
Give me sunshine and sweet golden sand.
I’m giving up dodging glassy-eyed puddles,
My feet like the kitchen cloth,
Face screwed up, no time for scruples.
Head down, walk straight and cough,
And silver speckled my licks are crowned.
Melting Black faces drip and shine,
No smile but an unsatisfied frown,
Same goes, I think, for mine.
Stepping through mirrored streets,
Reflections of the dirty skies,
Soaked from my head to my feet,
Drips from my lashes sting in my eye.
It is raining, and I give way,
Soaking and cold I should smile.
What the hell I’m wet for today
And there’s no use in getting so riled.
So kick the water, run down the road,
Hold your head up to the rain.
I was only feeling the cold,
Mind over matter over pain.
Soon I’ll be home throwing off my coat,
Wrestling with my hair,
Warm and hungry for curried goat,
And the windows haze in the air.
My merry moods
Change like the weather.
Wasita
Was it a café window
or
A picture of a café window on a café wall
or
Was it a picture of a café wall and a café window on a café wall?
Sing
