Wednesday, September 15, 2004

Nothing left to say 

The trouble with trying to write anything is that there is a vast archive of material out there that says it all better than I ever could, and is still relevant. It takes a peculiar arrogance or naivety to try and better something like this:

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


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


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 o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead

An open letter to everybody’s favourite president? Nope: a song from 1963, the year Dubya turned 17, and was more likely to have been trying to get lucky in the back of daddy’s Cadillac, or raiding the booze cabinet, than worrying about global conflict.

It’s Dylan by the way, Masters of War from Freewheelin’. But where are today’s protest singers? They’re out there, it’s just that they’re not as fashionable, or as good, as Dylan was in the 60s. Apart from the odd, crass, alt.country song, they’re writing - not singing - on the web, where people can share their ideas and opinions without a recording contract or a book deal. The bloggers and conspiracy theorists are busy getting their message across, but – as it probably was with Dylan and the rest – only the converted are listening. Plus ca change...

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