A Christmas Camel by Procol Harum

A Christmas Camel by Procol Harum

My amazon six-triggered bride
now searching for a place to hide
still sees the truth quite easily
but shrouds all else in mystery
while madmen in top hats and tails
impale themselves on six-inch nails
and some Arabian also-ran
impersonates a watering can

Some Santa Claus-like face of note
entreats my ears to set afloat
my feeble sick and weary brain
and I am overcome with shame
and hide inside my overcoat
and hurriedly begin to quote
while some Arabian sheikh most grand
impersonates a hot-dog stand

The Red Cross ambulance outside
can only mean that I must hide
'til dusk and finally the night
when I will make a hasty flight
across the sea and far away
to where the weary exiles stay
and some Arabian oil-well
impersonates a padded cell
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQwR1Ph35Jo

MEMO FROM TURNER by Rolling Stones' Mick Jagger

Played by Mick Jagger, Turner is a drug and sex addicted former rock star who has disappeared into retirement in order to write a memoir. ...See youtube link below of Mick Jagger's rendition of
Memo Form Turner in the classic movie Performance that highlights his talents as an actor as
well as a musician.

MEMO FROM TURNER by Rolling Stones' Mick Jagger

Didn't I see you down in San Antone on a hot and dusty night?
We were eating eggs in Sammy's
When the black man there drew his knife
Aw, you drowned that Jew in Rampton
As he washed his sleeveless shirt
You know, that Spanish-speaking gentlemen
The one we all called "Kurt"

Come now, gentleman, I know there's some mistake
How forgetful I'm becoming, now you fixed your bus'ness straight

I remember you in Hemlock Road in nineteen fifty-six
You're a faggy little leather boy with a smaller piece of stick
You're a lashing, smashing hunk of man;
Your sweat shines sweet and strong
Your organs working perfectly, but there's a part that's not screwed on

Weren't you at the Coke convention back on nineteen sixty-five
You're the misbred, grey executive I've seen heavily advertised

You're the great, gray man whose daughter licks policemen's buttons clean
You're the man who squats behind the man who works the soft machine

Come now, gentleman, your love is all I crave
You'll still be in the circus when I'm laughing, laughing in my grave

When the old men do the fighting and the young men all look on
And the young girls eat their mothers meat from tubes of plasticon
Be wary of these my gentle friends of all the skins you breed
They have a tasty habit,they eat the hands that bleed

So remember who you say you are and keep your noses clean
Boys will be boys and play with toys so be strong with your beast
Oh Rosie dear, doncha think it's queer, so stop me if you please
The baby is dead, my lady saïd, "you gentlemen, why you all work for me

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbyrm9q_bvM

Sympathy For The Devil by The Rolling Stones

(M. Jagger/K. Richards)

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith

And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

I stuck around St. Petersburg
When I saw it was a time for a change
Killed the Czar and his ministers
Anastasia screamed in vain

I rode a tank
Held a general's rank
When the Blitzkrieg raged
And the bodies stank

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name, oh yeah
Ah, what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, oh yeah
(woo woo, woo woo)

I watched with glee
While your kings and queens
Fought for ten decades
For the gods they made
(woo woo, woo woo)

I shouted out,
"Who killed the Kennedy's?"
When after all
It was you and me
(who who, who who)

Let me please introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
And I laid traps for troubadours
Who get killed before they reached Bombay
(woo woo, who who)

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah
(who who)
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, oh yeah, get down, baby
(who who, who who)

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, oh yeah
But what's confusing you
Is just the nature of my game
(woo woo, who who)

Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Lucifer
'Cause I'm in need of some restraint
(who who, who who)

So if you meet me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, have some taste
(woo woo)
Use all your well-learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste, mmm yeah
(woo woo, woo woo)

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, mmm yeah
(who who)
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game, mmm mean it, get down
(woo woo, woo woo)

Woo, who
Oh yeah, get on down
Oh yeah
Oh yeah!
(woo woo)

Tell me baby, what's my name
Tell me honey, can ya guess my name
Tell me baby, what's my name
I tell you one time, you're to blame

Oh, who
woo, woo
Woo, who
Woo, woo
Woo, who, who
Woo, who, who
Oh, yeah

What's my name
Tell me, baby, what's my name
Tell me, sweetie, what's my name

Woo, who, who
Woo, who, who
Woo, who, who
Woo, who, who
Woo, who, who
Woo, who, who
Oh, yeah
Woo woo
Woo woo
http://www.myspace.com/video/mk/sympathy-for-the-devil/3866216

When The Eagle Flies by Traffic

When The Eagle Flies lyrics

 

When the eagle flies you'd better watch your eyes
He's gonna sweep everything in his path
And when the heavens cry it's gonna drown the sky
And you'll get caught in the aftermath
When the mountains move it's no good trying
To prove that you've been doing everything you can
And don't you start to cry when you're about to die
You gotta stand up and take it like a man
Because you've been taking instead of giving
And all the while you've been living lies
Economics, all your atomics
Ain't gonna save you from that bird in the sky
And when the good times roll wrapped up in your mink coat

You will be stepping from your Cadillac
You will be stepping from your Cadillac
And in a micro flash you're gonna feel the lash
Of big eagle's wing across your back
And when the seas subside you'll see him glide right out of view
In clouds of snow the rains will come
And wash away the scum so that all the little flowers can grow
There'll be no more taking, only giving
And the sun pouring down
No economics and no atomics
Just the spread of Mother Nature's gown
Do you hear me, Mother Nature? ...

Low Spark Of High-Heeled Boys by Traffic

Low Spark Of High-Heeled Boys by Traffic

If you see something that looks like a star
and it's shooting up out of the ground
and your head is spinning from a loud guitar.
And you just can't escape from the sound
don't worry too much, it'll happen to you
We were children once, playing with toys.

And the sound that you're hearing is only the sound
of the low spark of high-heeled boys.

The percentage you're paying is too high a price
while you're living beyond all your means.
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
from the profit he's made on your dreams.
But today you just swear that the man was shot dead
by a gun that didn't make any noise.
But it wasn't the bullet that laid him to rest
was the low spark of high-heeled boys.

If you had just a minute to breathe
and they granted you one final wish
would you ask for something, like another chance.
Or something similar to this
don't worry too much, it'll happen to you
as sure as your sorrows are joys.

And the thing that disturbs you is only the sound
of the low spark of high-heeled boys.

The percentage you're paying is too high priced
while you're living beyond all your means
and the man in the suit has just bought a new car
from the profit he's made on your dreams
But today you just swear that the man was shot dead
by a gun that didn't make any noise
But it wasn't the bullet that laid him to rest
was the low spark of high-heeled boys....high-heeled boys.

If I gave you everything that I own
and asked for nothing in return
Would you do the same for me, as I would for you?
Or take me for a ride
and strip me of everything, including my pride
But spirit is something that no one destroys

And the sound that I'm hearing is only the sound
of the low spark of high-heeled boys.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3M8Sk7X51k

Graveyard People by Traffic

Graveyard People by Traffic

Graveyard people with graveyard minds
Peeking out through half-drawn blinds
Desperate people with desperate minds
Only live amongst straight lines
Scorning the gypsies camped out in the fields
What do they know of the warrior's shield?

Go-slow workers with Union minds
Striking out for better times
Sunshine people with sunshine minds
Living in these troubled times
Follow shop stewards like so many sheep
Sowing the seed that our children will reap

Go-slow workers with Union minds
Striking out for better times
Sunshine people with sunshine minds
Living in these troubled times
Get it together, no one knows how we feel
Sowing the seed that our children will reap
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NgNFGMCkPi4

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised by Gil Scott-Heron

YouillYou will not be able to stay home, brother.

You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.

You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and

Skip out for beer during commercials,

Because the revolution will not be televised.



The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox

In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.

The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon

Blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John

Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat

Hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.



The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the

Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie

Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.

The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.

The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.

The revolution will not make you look five pounds

Thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.



There will be no pictures of you and Willie May

Pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,

Or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.

NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32

Or report from 29 districts.

The revolution will not be televised.



There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

Brothers in the instant replay.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

Brothers in the instant replay.

There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being

Run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.

There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy

Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and

Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving

For just the proper occasion.



Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville

Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and

Women will not care if Dick finally gets down with

Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people

Will be in the street looking for a brighter day.

The revolution will not be televised.



There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock

News and no pictures of hairy armed women

Liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.

The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,

Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom

Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.

The revolution will not be televised.



The revolution will not be right back

After a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.

You will not have to worry about a dove in your

Bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.

The revolution will not go better with Coke.

The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.

The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.



The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,

Will not be televised, will not be televised.

The revolution will be no re-run brothers,

The revolution will be live. not be able to stay home, brother.
o 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGaRtqrlGy8
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the 
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the 
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The reYou will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the 
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.volution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.revoluti

Whitey On The Moon by Gil Scott Heron

Gil Scott Heron – Whitey On The Moon Lyrics

Posted: September 30, 2011 by Songs in Lyrics

0

A rat done bit my sister Nell
With Whitey on the moon
Her face and arms began to swell
And Whitey’s on the moon
I can’t pay no doctor bills
But Whitey’s on the moon
Ten years from now I’ll be paying still
While Whitey’s on the moon
You know, the man just upped my rent last night
Cause Whitey’s on the moon
No hot water, no toilets, no lights
But Whitey’s on the moon
I wonder why he’s uppin’ me?
Cause Whitey’s on the moon?
Well i was already given him fifty a week
And now Whitey’s on the moon
Taxes takin’ my whole damn check
The junkies make me a nervous wreck
The price of food is goin up
And if all that crap wasn’t enough
A rat done bit my sister nell
With Whitey on the moon
Her face and arms began to swell
And Whitey’s on the moon
With all that money i made last year
For Whitey on the moon
How come I ain’t got no money here?
Hmm, Whitey’s on the moon
You know I just about had my fill
Of Whitey on the moon
I think I’ll send these doctor bills
airmail special
(To Whitey on the moon)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PtBy_ppG4hY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otwkXZ0SmTs

AMELIA by Joni Mitchell

 "I wrote the album while traveling cross-country by myself and there is this restless feeling throughout it... the sweet loneliness of solitary travel. In this song, I was thinking of Amelia Earhart and addressing it from one solo pilot to another, sort of reflecting on the cost of being a woman and having something you must do." -
Joni Mitchell  from a 1996 interview with the Los Angeles Times

Amelia

I was driving across the burning desert When I spotted six jet planes Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain It was the hexagram of the heavens It was the strings of my guitar Amelia, it was just a false alarm The drone of flying engines Is a song so wild and blue It scrambles time and seasons if it gets thru to you Then your life becomes a travelogue Of picture-post-card-charms Amelia, it was just a false alarm People will tell you where they’ve gone They’ll tell you where to go But till you get there yourself you never really know Where some have found their paradise Other’s just come to harm Oh amelia, it was just a false alarm I wish that he was here tonight It’s so hard to obey His sad request of me to kindly stay away So this is how I hide the hurt As the road leads cursed and charmed I tell amelia, it was just a false alarm A ghost of aviation She was swallowed by the sky Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly Like icarus ascending On beautiful foolish arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm Maybe I’ve never really loved I guess that is the truth I’ve spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude And looking down on everything I crashed into his arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm I pulled into the cactus tree motel To shower off the dust And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust I dreamed of 747s Over geometric farms Dreams, amelia, dreams and false alarms

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rzjxIIhHYRA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rzjxIIhHYRA

Masters of War by Bob Dylan

 Masters of War by Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks.

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly.

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain.

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion'
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud.

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins.

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
That even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do.

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul.

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand over your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onRobFQchS0

Too Much of Nothing by Bob Dylan

Written by Bob Dylan

Peter Paul & Mary - Too Much Of Nothing

Too much of nothing
Can make a man ill at ease
One man's temper might rise
While another man's temper might freeze
In the day of confession
We cannot mock a soul
Oh, when there's too much of nothing
No one has control.

Say hello to Valerie
Say hello to Vivian
Give them all my salary
On the waters of oblivion.

When there's too much of nothing
It can cause a man to weep
He can walk the streets and boast like
Of what he'd like to keep
But it's all been done before
It's all been written in the book
And where there's too much of nothing
Nobody should look.

Say hello to Valerie
Say hello to Vivian
Give them all my salary
On the waters of oblivion.

And too much of nothing can make a man a liar
It can cause one man to sleep on nails
It can cause others to eat fire
Everybody's doin' somethin'
I heard it in a dream
But when there's too much of nothing
It just makes a fella mean.

Say hello to Valerie
Say hello to Vivian
Give them all my salary
On the waters of oblivion.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMv6P23WWWM

American Pie by Don McLean

A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while.

But february made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep;
I couldn’t take one more step.

I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.

So bye-bye, miss american pie.
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Did you write the book of love,
And do you have faith in God above,
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock ’n roll,
Can music save your mortal soul,
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you’re in love with him
`cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym.
You both kicked off your shoes.
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues.

I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died.

I started singin’,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone,
But that’s not how it used to be.
When the jester sang for the king and queen,
In a coat he borrowed from james dean
And a voice that came from you and me,

Oh, and while the king was looking down,
The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while lennon read a book of marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.

We were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter,
Eight miles high and falling fast.
It landed foul on the grass.
The players tried for a forward pass,
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast.

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune.
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The marching band refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?

We started singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Oh, and there we were all in one place,
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again.
So come on: jack be nimble, jack be quick!
Jack flash sat on a candlestick
Cause fire is the devil’s only friend.

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in hell
Could break that satan’s spell.
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

He was singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play.

And in the streets: the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most:
The father, son, and the holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died.

And they were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

They were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwijEXsgGf4

With God On Our Side by Bob Dylan

Yes I admit I was and still am a 'Bob Dylan fan'.And I love the song-poem as well.However I believe Bob waxes a bit over simplistcy at times in this one.Particularly in knee jerkingly blaming 'the Germans' for or of
 murdering, ' six million,In the ovens they fried,'as he states it.After all European Christians killed for more of each other of the centuries than they klled any 'Jews' and Bob might have come out of his cultureacentric white 'Jewish' up bringing to have taking a little step back at looked at a little more distance and from a few more angles.I'm only glad he didn't say were,' murdered six million Semites',then I really would have barfed.
After all Jews in Europe were never 'Semites' in the first place,they were for the most just white Europeans with a different religion and in fact from a little distance they didn't even have a different religion because the 'Christians' were as much into the same old Testament patriarchs and low lifes of the Torah that the 'Jews' were into,only from a different take or angle in regards to inteerpretation of their shared mythology.
Obviously in retrospect no white Europeans were `semites' but the Euro Christians have never scene a ral Caucasian Semite in their life so what or how were they to know that thses 'Jews' were not really Semites and  had no historic origens or relation to the Middle East or Palestine or 'Israel' in the first place and they certainly weren't from any direct 'seed of Abraham' to say the least nor were any of their ancestors have anything to do with nor were they anywhere near or in the vicinity of Jerusalem when and if the Christian 'Savior',Jesus Christ' was crucified - if indeed that event ever occured in the first place !
It has pretty much been documented by the  former Hungarian Zionist Arthur Koestler who wrote,' The Thirteenth Tribe',about non Semitic Judeaism in Europe,that Jews in Europe generally looked like and had more genetically  in common with other European Christians in whose countries and regions they resided than they did among each other.This would literally mean a German Jew or Polish Jew or Hungarian Jew was in fact very well assimilated into the genetic mix of the region he or she inhabited either due to rape or extra marital dallying whether approved by the the Church or Rabbis or not.For now I'll leave at that and enjoy listening to  yet another recital of Bob Dylan's,'With God on our Side'.

With God On Our Side

Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.

Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side.

Oh the Spanish-American
War had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
I's made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side.

The First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side.

Whwn the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side.

I've learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It's them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side.

But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.

In a many dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side.

So now as I'm leavin'
I'm weary as Hell
The confusion I'm feelin'
Ain't no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God's on our side
He'll stop the next war.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raI25N-OoMQ

It's All Over Now, Baby Blue by Bob Dylan

"It's All Over Now, Baby Blue"

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun
Look out the saints are comin' through
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense
Take what you have gathered from coincidence
The empty handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets
This sky, too, is folding under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home
Your empty handed armies, are all going home
Your lover who just walked out the door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor
The carpet, too, is moving under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore
Strike another match, go start a new
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YN25Pp0hrOM

Gates Of Eden lyrics by Bob Dylan

Gates Of Eden lyrics

Of war and peace the truth just twists
Its curfew gull just glides
Upon four-legged forest clouds
The cowboy angel rides
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
All except when 'neath the trees of Eden.

The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs 'neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fall
With a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden.

The savage soldiers sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who's gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tatooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden.

With a time-rusted compass blade
Alladin and his lamp
Sits with Utopian hermit monks
Side saddle on the Golden Calf
And on their promises of paradise
You will not hear a laugh
All except inside the Gates of Eden.

Relationships of ownership
They whisper in the wings
To those condemned to act accordingly
And wait for succeeding kings
And I will try to harmonize with songs
The lonesome sparrow sings
There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden.

The motorcycle black madonna
Two-wheeled gypsy queen
And her silver-studded phantom cause
The gray flannel dwarf to scream
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey
Who pick up on his bread crumb sins
And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden.

The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what's real and what is not
It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden.

The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden.

At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what's true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YmtLJgRt_zc&feature=related

It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) by Bob Dylan

It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding) by Bob Dylan

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child’s balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying
Temptation’s page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover that you’d just be one more
Person crying
So don’t fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing
As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don’t hate nothing at all
Except hatred
Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred
While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have to stand naked
An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it
Advertising signs they con
You into thinking you’re the one
That can do what’s never been done
That can win what’s never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you
You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks they really found you
A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit
To satisfy, insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to
Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to
For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something they invest in
While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him
While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society’s pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he’s in
But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it’s alright, Ma, if I can’t please him
Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn’t talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony
While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer’s pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death’s honesty
Won’t fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes must get lonely
My eyes collide head-on with stuffed
Graveyards, false gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough, what else can you show me?
And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1nSKmh507E

Chiquita Banana Crime Rhyme

 The following I first, (and last), heard in the 1970's from a musician who I shared a house with in Oakland, California.I may never know if he was the one who wrote it.I don't remember either asking or receiving an answer.
However the words seem to have stuck in my brain ever since and I repeat them here now.Upon listening to the  CHIQUITA BANANA SONG 1940's ,the rhythm of my old friend's song does seem perhaps to have been inspired in part by it so maybe another musician can put this to guitar.:

Chiquita Banana Rhyme

I'm  Chiquita Banana and I'm here to stay,
South of the border down past Mexico way,
Shipped up north to the United States,
Hope you find a tarantula when you open the crates,
Uncle Sam we thank you for your foreign aid,
Just like in Viet Nam you're just trying to establish fair trade.




CHIQUITA BANANA SONG 1940's
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4572897914467589495

WTC,9/11:Somebody Blew Up America by Amiri Baraka aka Leroy Jones

Somebody Blew Up America by Amiri Baraka
 SOMEBODY BLEW UP AMERICA

   (All thinking people
   oppose terrorism
   both domestic
   & international…
   But one should not
    be used
   To cover the other)

They say its some terrorist, some
         barbaric
                          A Rab, in
   Afghanistan
It wasn't our American terrorists
It wasn't the Klan or the Skin heads
Or the them that blows up nigger
Churches, or reincarnates us on Death Row
It wasn't Trent Lott
Or David Duke or Giuliani
Or Schundler, Helms retiring

It wasn't
the gonorrhea in costume
the white sheet diseases
That have murdered black people
Terrorized reason and sanity
Most of  humanity, as they pleases

They say (who say? Who do the saying
Who is them paying
Who tell the lies
Who in disguise
Who had the slaves
Who got the bux out the Bucks

Who got fat from plantations
Who genocided Indians
Tried to waste the  Black nation

Who live on Wall Street
   The first plantation
Who cut your nuts off
Who rape your ma
Who lynched your pa

Who got the tar, who got the feathers
Who had the match, who set the fires
Who killed and hired
Who say they God & still be  the Devil

Who the biggest only
Who the  most goodest
Who do Jesus resemble

Who created everything
Who  the smartest
Who  the greatest
Who  the richest
Who say you ugly and they  the goodlookingest

Who define art
Who define science

Who made the bombs
Who made the guns

Who bought the  slaves, who sold them

Who called you them names
Who say Dahmer wasn't insane
 
       Who/  Who /  Who/

Who stole Puerto Rico
Who stole the Indies, the Philipines, Manhattan
   Australia & The Hebrides
Who forced opium on the Chinese

Who own them buildings
Who got the money
Who think you funny
Who locked you up
Who own the papers

Who owned the slave ship
Who run the army

Who  the  fake president
Who  the ruler
Who  the banker
 
                 Who/ Who/ Who/

Who own the mine
Who twist your mind
Who  got bread
Who need peace
Who you think need war

Who own the oil
Who do no toil
Who own the soil
Who is not a nigger
Who is so great ain't nobody bigger

Who own  this city

Who own the air
Who own the water

Who own your crib
Who rob and steal and cheat and murder
       and make lies the truth
Who call you uncouth

Who live in the biggest house
Who do the biggest crime
Who go on vacation anytime

Who killed the most niggers
Who killed the most Jews
Who killed the most Italians
Who killed the most Irish
Who killed the most Africans
Who killed the most Japanese
Who killed the most Latinos

 Who/Who/Who

Who own the ocean

Who own the airplanes
Who own the malls
Who own  television
Who own  radio

Who own what ain't even known to be owned
Who own the owners that ain't the real owners

Who own the suburbs
Who suck the cities
Who make the laws

Who  made  Bush  president
Who believe the confederate flag need to be flying
Who talk about democracy and be lying
    WHO/ WHO/ WHOWHO/

Who  the Beast in Revelations
Who  666
Who decide
   Jesus get crucified

Who  the Devil on the real side
Who got rich from Armenian genocide

Who  the biggest terrorist
Who change the bible
Who killed the most people
Who do the most evil
Who don't worry about survival

Who have the colonies
Who stole the most land
Who rule the world
Who say they good but only do evil
Who  the biggest executioner

   Who/Who/Who     ^^^

Who own the oil
Who want more oil
Who told you what you think that later you find out a lie
Who/ Who/ ???

Who fount Bin Laden, maybe they Satan
Who pay the CIA,
Who knew the bomb was gonna blow
Who know why the  terrorists
   Learned to fly in Florida, San Diego

Who know why Five Israelis was filming the explosion
   And cracking they sides at the notion

Who need fossil fuel when the sun ain't goin' nowhere

Who make the credit cards
Who get the biggest tax cut
Who walked out of the Conference
   Against Racism
Who killed Malcolm, Kennedy & his Brother
Who killed Dr King, Who would want such a thing?
   Are they linked to the murder of Lincoln?

Who invaded Grenada
Who made money from apartheid
Who keep the Irish a colony
Who overthrow Chile and Nicaragua later

Who killed David Sibeko,  Chris Hani,
    the same ones who killed Biko, Cabral,
       Neruda, Allende, Che Guevara, Sandino,

Who killed Kabila,  the ones who wasted Lumumba, Mondlane , Betty Shabazz, Princess Margaret, Ralph Featherstone, Little Bobby

Who locked up Mandela, Dhoruba, Geronimo,
Assata, Mumia,Garvey, Dashiell Hammett, Alphaeus Hutton

Who killed Huey Newton, Fred Hampton,
    MedgarEvers, Mikey Smith, Walter Rodney,
Was it the ones who tried to poison Fidel
Who tried to keep the Vietnamese Oppressed

Who put a price on Lenin's head

Who put the Jews in ovens,
     and who helped them   do it
Who said "America First"
        and ok'd  the yellow stars
                                                WHO/WHO/ ^^
 
Who killed Rosa Luxembourg, Liebneckt
Who murdered the Rosenbergs
   And all the good people iced,
   tortured , assassinated, vanished

Who got rich from Algeria, Libya, Haiti,
   Iran, Iraq, Saudi, Kuwait, Lebanon,
   Syria, Egypt, Jordan, Palestine,

Who cut off peoples hands in the Congo
Who invented Aids Who put the germs
   In the Indians' blankets
Who thought up "The Trail of Tears"

Who blew up the Maine
& started the Spanish American War
Who got Sharon back in Power
Who backed Batista, Hitler, Bilbo,
      Chiang kai Chek                       who WHO   W H O/

Who decided Affirmative Action had to go
  Reconstruction, The New Deal, The New
  Frontier, The Great Society,

Who do Tom Ass Clarence Work for
Who doo doo come out the Colon's mouth
Who know what kind of Skeeza is a Condoleeza
Who pay Connelly to be a wooden negro
Who give Genius Awards to Homo Locus
       Subsidere

Who overthrew Nkrumah,  Bishop,
Who poison Robeson,
        who try to put DuBois in Jail
Who frame Rap Jamil al Amin, Who frame the Rosenbergs, Garvey,
         The Scottsboro Boys,      The Hollywood Ten
 

Who set the Reichstag Fire

Who knew the World Trade Center was gonna get bombed
Who told 4000 Israeli workers at the Twin Towers
   To stay home that day
Why did Sharon stay away                    ?
                                          /
Who,Who, Who/
                         explosion of Owl the newspaper say
the devil face cd be seen       Who  WHO     Who WHO

Who make money from war
Who make  dough from fear and lies
Who want the world like it is
Who want the world to be ruled by imperialism and national oppression and terror
   violence, and hunger and poverty.

Who is the ruler of Hell?
Who is the most powerful
 

Who you know ever
Seen God?

But everybody seen
The Devil
 

Like an Owl exploding
In your life in your brain in your self
Like an Owl who know the devil
All night, all day if you listen, Like an Owl
Exploding in fire. We hear the questions rise
In terrible flame like the whistle of a crazy dog

Like the acid vomit of the fire of Hell
Who and Who and WHO (+) who who ^
    Whoooo and Whooooooooooooooooooooo!
 

                             AMIRI B  10/01

http://www.amiribaraka.com/blew.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUEu-pG1HWw

The Mask of Anarchy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Mask of Anarchy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Probably my favorite poet of all time,Percy Shelley.This is first part of Mask of Anarchy
in which the term anarchy gets a bad name and is associated with the very British aristocracy
that he was pat of by birth and that despised him as he did them.:

Written on the occasion of the massacre carried out by the British Government
at Peterloo, Manchester 1819

As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw -
'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'

With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

'We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -

Then all cried with one accord,
'Thou art King, and God and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!'

And Anarchy, the skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:

'My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!

He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me -
Misery, oh, Misery!'

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

http://www.artofeurope.com/shelley/she5.htm

...................

And this,a beautiful somewhat hidden passage from the long poem,'Revolt of Islam',written in

http://www.online-literature.com/shelley_percy/2779/

And Oromaze, Joshua, and Mahomet,
Moses, and Buddh, Zerdusht, and Brahm, and Foh,

4065

A tumult of strange names, which never met
Before, as watchwords of a single woe,
Arose; each raging votary ‘gan to throw
Aloft his armed hands, and each did howl
‘Our God alone is God!’— and slaughter now

4070

Would have gone forth, when from beneath a cowl
A voice came forth, which pierced like ice through every soul.

32.

’Twas an Iberian Priest from whom it came,
A zealous man, who led the legioned West,
With words which faith and pride had steeped in flame,

4075

To quell the unbelievers; a dire guest
Even to his friends was he, for in his breast
Did hate and guile lie watchful, intertwined,
Twin serpents in one deep and winding nest;
He loathed all faith beside his own, and pined

4080

To wreak his fear of Heaven in vengeance on mankind.

33.

But more he loathed and hated the clear light
Of wisdom and free thought, and more did fear,
Lest, kindled once, its beams might pierce the night,
Even where his Idol stood; for, far and near

4085

Did many a heart in Europe leap to hear
That faith and tyranny were trampled down;
Many a pale victim, doomed for truth to share
The murderer’s cell, or see, with helpless groan,
The priests his children drag for slaves to serve their own.

34.

4090

He dared not kill the infidels with fire
Or steel, in Europe; the slow agonies
Of legal torture mocked his keen desire:
So he made truce with those who did despise
The expiation, and the sacrifice,

4095

That, though detested, Islam’s kindred creed
Might crush for him those deadlier enemies;
For fear of God did in his bosom breed
A jealous hate of man, an unreposing need.

35.

‘Peace! Peace!’ he cried, ‘when we are dead, the Day

4100

Of Judgement comes, and all shall surely know
Whose God is God, each fearfully shall pay
The errors of his faith in endless woe!
But there is sent a mortal vengeance now
On earth, because an impious race had spurned

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Him whom we all adore,— a subtle foe,
By whom for ye this dread reward was earned,
And kingly thrones, which rest on faith, nigh overturned.

................

Note on the “Revolt of Islam”, By Mrs. Shelley,( or Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,author of Frankenstein and daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft,(1759-1797),an English writer and  one of the earliest advocates of women's rights and equality.:

Shelley possessed two remarkable qualities of intellect — a brilliant imagination, and a logical exactness of reason. His inclinations led him (he fancied) almost alike to poetry and metaphysical discussions. I say ‘he fancied,’ because I believe the former to have been paramount, and that it would have gained the mastery even had he struggled against it. However, he said that he deliberated at one time whether he should dedicate himself to poetry or metaphysics; and, resolving on the former, he educated himself for it, discarding in a great measure his philosophical pursuits, and engaging himself in the study of the poets of Greece, Italy, and England. To these may be added a constant perusal of portions of the old Testament — the Psalms, the Book of Job, the Prophet Isaiah, and others, the sublime poetry of which filled him with delight.
As a poet, his intellect and compositions were powerfully influenced by exterior circumstances, and especially by his place of abode. He was very fond of travelling, and ill-health increased this restlessness. The sufferings occasioned by a cold English winter made him pine, especially when our colder spring arrived, for a more genial climate. In 1816 he again visited Switzerland, and rented a house on the banks of the Lake of Geneva; and many a day, in cloud or sunshine, was passed alone in his boat — sailing as the wind listed, or weltering on the calm waters. The majestic aspect of Nature ministered such thoughts as he afterwards enwove in verse. His lines on the Bridge of the Arve, and his “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty”, were written at this time. Perhaps during this summer his genius was checked by association with another poet whose nature was utterly dissimilar to his own, yet who, in the poem he wrote at that time, gave tokens that he shared for a period the more abstract and etherealised inspiration of Shelley. The saddest events awaited his return to England; but such was his fear to wound the feelings of others that he never expressed the anguish he felt, and seldom gave vent to the indignation roused by the persecutions he underwent; while the course of deep unexpressed passion, and the sense of injury, engendered the desire to embody themselves in forms defecated of all the weakness and evil which cling to real life.
He chose therefore for his hero a youth nourished in dreams of liberty, some of whose actions are in direct opposition to the opinions of the world; but who is animated throughout by an ardent love of virtue, and a resolution to confer the boons of political and intellectual freedom on his fellow-creatures. He created for this youth a woman such as he delighted to imagine — full of enthusiasm for the same objects; and they both, with will unvanquished, and the deepest sense of the justice of their cause, met adversity and death. There exists in this poem a memorial of a friend of his youth. The character of the old man who liberates Laon from his tower prison, and tends on him in sickness, is founded on that of Doctor Lind, who, when Shelley was at Eton, had often stood by to befriend and support him, and whose name he never mentioned without love and veneration.
During the year 1817 we were established at Marlow in Buckinghamshire. Shelley’s choice of abode was fixed chiefly by this town being at no great distance from London, and its neighbourhood to the Thames. The poem was written in his boat, as it floated under the beech groves of Bisham, or during wanderings in the neighbouring country, which is distinguished for peculiar beauty. The chalk hills break into cliffs that overhang the Thames, or form valleys clothed with beech; the wilder portion of the country is rendered beautiful by exuberant vegetation; and the cultivated part is peculiarly fertile. With all this wealth of Nature which, either in the form of gentlemen’s parks or soil dedicated to agriculture, flourishes around, Marlow was inhabited (I hope it is altered now) by a very poor population. The women are lacemakers, and lose their health by sedentary labour, for which they were very ill paid. The Poor-laws ground to the dust not only the paupers, but those who had risen just above that state, and were obliged to pay poor-rates. The changes produced by peace following a long war, and a bad harvest, brought with them the most heart-rending evils to the poor. Shelley afforded what alleviation he could. In the winter, while bringing out his poem, he had a severe attack of ophthalmia, caught while visiting the poor cottages. I mention these things,— for this minute and active sympathy with his fellow-creatures gives a thousandfold interest to his speculations, and stamps with reality his pleadings for the human race.
The poem, bold in its opinions and uncompromising in their expression, met with many censurers, not only among those who allow of no virtue but such as supports the cause they espouse, but even among those whose opinions were similar to his own. I extract a portion of a letter written in answer to one of these friends. It best details the impulses of Shelley’s mind, and his motives: it was written with entire unreserve; and is therefore a precious monument of his own opinion of his powers, of the purity of his designs, and the ardour with which he clung, in adversity and through the valley of the shadow of death, to views from which he believed the permanent happiness of mankind must eventually spring.

‘Marlowe, December 11, 1817.
‘I have read and considered all that you say about my general powers, and the particular instance of the poem in which I have attempted to develop them. Nothing can be more satisfactory to me than the interest which your admonitions express. But I think you are mistaken in some points with regard to the peculiar nature of my powers, whatever be their amount. I listened with deference and self-suspicion to your censures of “The Revolt of Islam”; but the productions of mine which you commend hold a very low place in my own esteem; and this reassures me, in some degree at least. The poem was produced by a series of thoughts which filled my mind with unbounded and sustained enthusiasm. I felt the precariousness of my life, and I engaged in this task, resolved to leave some record of myself. Much of what the volume contains was written with the same feeling — as real, though not so prophetic — as the communications of a dying man. I never presumed indeed to consider it anything approaching to faultless; but, when I consider contemporary productions of the same apparent pretensions, I own I was filled with confidence. I felt that it was in many respects a genuine picture of my own mind. I felt that the sentiments were true, not assumed. And in this have I long believed that my power consists; in sympathy, and that part of the imagination which relates to sentiment and contemplation. I am formed, if for anything not in common with the herd of mankind, to apprehend minute and remote distinctions of feeling, whether relative to external nature or the living beings which surround us, and to communicate the conceptions which result from considering either the moral or the material universe as a whole. Of course, I believe these faculties, which perhaps comprehend all that is sublime in man, to exist very imperfectly in my own mind. But, when you advert to my Chancery-paper, a cold, forced, unimpassioned, insignificant piece of cramped and cautious argument, and to the little scrap about “Mandeville”, which expressed my feelings indeed, but cost scarcely two minutes’ thought to express, as specimens of my powers more favourable than that which grew as it were from “the agony and bloody sweat” of intellectual travail; surely I must feel that, in some manner, either I am mistaken in believing that I have any talent at all, or you in the selection of the specimens of it. Yet, after all, I cannot but be conscious, in much of what I write, of an absence of that tranquillity which is the attribute and accompaniment of power. This feeling alone would make your most kind and wise admonitions, on the subject of the economy of intellectual force, valuable to me. And, if I live, or if I see any trust in coming years, doubt not but that I shall do something, whatever it may be, which a serious and earnest estimate of my powers will suggest to me, and which will be in every respect accommodated to their utmost limits.

[Shelley to Godwin.]

http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/shelley/percy_bysshe/revolt_of_islam/afterword.html

Walking in the Wind by Traffic

One of my favorite examples of poetry in Rock or Jazz Rock music.:

Walking in the Wind by Traffic

You walk and talk and move around in circles
Your friends telling you you are doing fine
You can't see that snowball as it hurtles
Through the shattered membranes of your mind
If I could talk to you for just one minute
Then you would know what it is I am getting at
But there again your head's got nothing in it
By the way you left without your hat

I'm walking in the wind looking at the sky
Hanging on a breeze and wondering why, why
Your old man's headed for the final pay-off
The joker that you got is fading too
And all the sharks that come around for the rip-off
Are gonna tear the flesh right off you
The plastic princess hangs her head in wonder at the silver glittered boys
Trying, trying to compete
And all at once the room begins to thunder
And all that's left is the stain on the sheet

The prostitute is standing on the corner
Suffering so much pain to stay alive
She's so real, that life itself bows down before her
She couldn't make that nine to five
While the president is crying, crying in the White House
The prime minister's really got the blues
All the heads of state are busy playing cat & mouse
'Cause you can see none of them have ever paid their dues

God knows why, why, why

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=li-Ftns0vEc