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NATURE MORTE
WOT: Pre-US Election Bargain, Iraq Since I have no principles there's nothing to sacrifice. Deaths can be bought for dollars. If you give me the money I'll hand over the weapons, and stop being a terrorist. No more blowing up ourselves to change the world. Now despair disappears into thin air. If you give me the money I'll hand over the weapons, and stop being a terrorist. Unmarked notes in body bags exchanged for the living dead at the border that's between democracy and belief. If you give me the money I'll hand over the weapons, and stop being a terrorist. If you do not trust us, know there is a bomb strapped to each hostage and a fuse to me. I presume you'll do likewise. If you give me the money I'll hand over the weapons, and stop being a terrorist. Land Shanties 1. In this the Port of Venus there's no love's lost between us and land lubbers with bank loans, who are colonising our homes. More fool they In ancient times these Vikings with spiked helmets, and nose rings, sailed in to steal our women. Now they buy our homes to build on. More fool they Behind Land Rover bull bars, they only talk to their builders, raising tower blocks in the skies for second homers who'd pay any price. More fool they With fish in the sea dying, and grapes rotting on the vines, we can't afford to refuse a tramontane of fresh euros. More fool they Once the agents get their cut we'll retire to a wine hut. And the town will rise in height, as a glorified building site. More fool they Safe in their graves, our Old say, 'Every Babel has its day. The apartments won't be sold. Who'd want to live in a hell hole?' Praise the dead 2. They come from Northern Europe, their backs a slippery slope. Faces like official forms, the skin the texture of corns. You won't be met eye to eye with a 'bonjour', nor even a 'hi'. That's how it is The young who can't wait to be free of the beard of patrimony, to hare off to gipsy nights in Perpignan which end in riots, say, 'You can't afford to be proud, not being rich like the yachting crowd'. That's how it is 'Grab what's offered on the plate. And you ought to imitate how they look after themselves. Even their grannies are svelte.' We end up taking the bait, and our young in a council estate. That's how it is 3. The abyss is yawning because of global warming and Japanese harpooning. The European Union won't let us go out The beaches are eroding. There is a foreboding the planet will soon cease. Jose Bové and Greenpeace won't let us go out O the little fishes are certain to miss us as much as we miss them. It's only wicked men won't let us go out So on dry land we are waiting to disappear a little every year. Like petrol. Soon the car won't let us go out The Cork Renaissance Under every stone there are two poets fighting for a bone to contend with. Both write the self same poem. But you'd never guess from the words alone. The way of the flesh is all in the tone. which goes with the drink, and the strong sense of being chosen. You'd think, when push comes to shove, with the life they live, they'd be shagged enough to be sensitive- like, and dry up. Love of one another would bring peace that flows with honey, mother's milk, and, perhaps, prose. Anything but verse of the free beer kind, the top of the bus after closing time, loudmouth recitals of self-raising Fleurs du South or North Mall. Throw off the tossers. |