Люблю тексты Skyclad ...
A BROKEN PROMISED LAND - [M.Walkyier]
----------------------
See the red 'messiah' high upon a soap-box pulpit,
agitating his apostles with the gospels in his hand,
while apprentice Hitlers gather down in inner city subways
to immortalise their ignorance with aerosol spray cans.
Life is the lesson - History our tutor.
Learn from the past - preserve us a future.
So many causes I could die for - but I don't know which is right,
in this millenia of martyrs and injustices to fight.
Why must brother kill his brother - when united they should stand?
Men by swords and words divided in our broken promised land.
These tattered battle standards fly - their colours do not run,
unlike our tears that trickle down the decades soon to come.
You promised us a 'Golden Age' - we couldn't wait to try it,
but never told us of the blood we'd have to shed to buy it!
We are brought forth with nothing we struggle for nothing,
and then unto nothing return.
Though their words have no meaning - to question them: "Treason!",
look back watch the pages of history burn.
Our Devil has two wings (both left wing and right),
they carry him far on this anarchic flight.
'Til the fools of all nations now at his command bring darkness to once green (now unpleasant) lands.
The voices on your TV are like whispers in a dream,
Someone else's nightmares in a place you've never been.
But the streets run red round Tianneman Square - and the blood won't wash away.
You don't recognise their faces - so young and dead they stay.
You've never had to answer to the barrel of a gun,
so how could you expect... (expect what was to come?).
In the troubled streets of Moscow - and in tenements in Moss Side,
there are people using silver tongues to turn dissenting worms.
How can the dissatifaction of some left or right wing faction hope to justify the bombs that burst -
the innocents that burn.
We move in vicious circles as we fan the fires of hate,
and laugh as the 'Four Horsemen' clamour at the starters gate.
We are brought forth with nothing we struggle for nothing,
and then unto nothing return.
Though their words have no meaning - to question them: "Treason!",
look back watch the pages of history burn.
Our Devil has two wings (both left wing and right),
they carry him far on this anarchic flight.
'Til the fools of all nations now at his command bring darkness to once green (now unpleasant) lands.
CRY OF THE LAND - [M. Walkyier]
---------------
Vibrant and real I lie,
Mantled by the open sky,
The wind and waves my lullaby -
I am the land.
Why do you view me with
eyes unable to see,
The beauty in all that is pure
when it's left to live free?
So hot the fires within my breast -
rock and steel can't stand their test,
Yet songbirds in my green beard newst -
I am the land.
That which is so strong and old
cannot be bought or sold,
Mine is the green and gold -
Wealth without end.
Ruled by the ebb of my oceans
Slaves to the dusk and the dawn,
Your petri - dish civilisations
are buried and born.
I watch as you live
with your heads in the sand,
Unable to hear the cry of the land.
I was once a 'Happy Hunting Ground',
The one day the eyes of science
found a blue - green planet
spinning round a shining star.
The timeless giver of all life
offered as a sacrifice,
The priceless finds it's price
In the greed of man.
You bury your fears
and your heads in the sand,
So you'll never hear the cry of the land.
А вот и лучшая песня о шоу-бизнесе (не считая Ленинграда конечно
) :
PENNY DREADFUL - [M.Walkyier]
--------------
Forgive me if I'm out of order -
this new 'music' has no soul.
It may be good for making money,
(Sadly that is not my goal).
Integrity and honesty are words that
you don't understand,
but you're the best - it says so in
the penny dreadful in your hand.
I saw you in a magazine,
they're calling you messiah.
They must be living in a dream -
they couldn't be more wrong.
If we'd played this riff more punk
then maybe we'd have had a million
seller.
But this piper's tune is not for sale,
(I'm glad to say I'm not that kind of
fella).
D.J.s, V.J.s, pimps and trollops,
never mind music - this is bollocks.
I saw you in a magazine,
they're calling you messiah.
They must be living in a dream -
they couldn't be more wrong.
Turn on, tune up, cash in, sell out.
Stand your ground behind the times -
and refuse to follow fashion.
Write your poetry with anger,
(and then sing it with a passion).
Painted faces in a circus - images that
spring to mind,
when I read my penny dreadful filled
with pictures of your kind.
I saw you in a magazine,
they're calling you messiah.
They must be living in a dream -
they couldn't be more wrong.
Commercial suicide's appealing after
ten years on this losing streak.
'cause I'd rather be called sour and
bitter than be deemed the flavour
of the weak.
I saw you in a magazine,
they're calling you messiah.
They must be living in a dream -
they couldn't be more wrong.
Extra, extra, read all about it!
I saw you in a magazine,
they're calling you messiah.
They must be living in a dream -
they couldn't be more wrong.
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