1. |
Stories
03:09
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It’s gotta’ be more than just a must
That our purpose in this life is to adjust,
Every time you hit a wall, bad luck,
The seas get rougher, and then we stutter.
Maybe it’s something more than fate,
Going out on the town, and we can’t see straight,
Laugh out loud when we make mistakes
Under covers, or in the gutters.
Where’s this song gonna’ take us?
Where we gonna’ go today?
What stories await us
When we step right off the train?
‘Cause folk like us need open spaces,
The blue skies and the rain,
Then when we wake up, hungover,
We’ll do it all again,
We’ll be okay.
We’ll go down the slow lane,
And make the journey last a while longer.
We can take the stop train,
And tell our stories all night and day.
We’ll sing our blues away.
Sometimes, it’s a better choice to pretend
That your life means more when you’re out with friends,
Though not all of us will reach the end,
We came from nothing, we’ll leave with nothing.
Maybe we could call these nights a joke,
Drinking rum in a park, ‘cause we’re always broke,
Camberwell, to Alton, to Basingstoke,
It isn’t something, it isn’t nothing.
So, we’ll go on singing
Every word, of every line,
Until the music stops, our mouths run dry
And our hearts beat out of time,
Folk like us can’t work in silence,
Compliance, or control,
We’ll go on burning signal fires
As we metre out our souls,
The flame burns slow.
We’ll go down the slow lane,
And make the journey last a while longer.
We can take the stop train,
And tell our stories all night and day.
We’re far from the top, but
We can stop ourselves from going under,
So raise them if you’ve got them,
And we could sing our blues away.
We’ll sing our blues away.
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2. |
Battles - Demo
02:23
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I once heard a short account
That "when it rains, it floods,"
But it took at least two hundred years
To stop the rush of blood
And even now, they march the streets,
They claim to keep the peace
Racists, protected by police:
Will Stockwell moments ever cease?
The firebombs keep coming,
And they'll keep coming still
Every time that news reporters claim
That British blood was spilled,
And like native, sovereign terrorists
We fight until we're killed
But nothing's well under the sun.
My ancestors ran away from their plantations
As their ill-remembered masters angered up the blood, and wrote:
"Freedom wears a cap without a tongue."
We still fight battles
With our drums and our guitars
We shout out every fucking note.
Until we choke, convictions lodged in our throats.
There are obviously problems
When we're so fucking embattled
That making your way through life's a hassle
Even when the chains you rattle are slack,
You're still shackled
With mind-forg'd manacles
Daily Mail down palace walls
Submissive - but with modern tools.
And you can shoot a nigger dead, copper
Proper easy mark,
And then condemn the racial tension
When you lit the fucking spark
And like a man jumping a barrier
Means police can jump the shark
Nothing's well under the sun.
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