@ALBUM: Gifts and Telegrams @SONG: One Little Soldier He put his shoulder to the wheel, and turned his back against the world, spoke his mind,too many times, opened his mouth a little too wide; they're going to put you in the gas-chamber,sonny; strap you into the electric chair, tie you on to the rack, with paving stones upon your back... with your friends on the top,to crush you quicker. Sometimes i wonder if this is worth all the effort, sometimes i wonder if this is all quite fair where people wait for you to speak their minds,their thoughts, then take away all of their cares; that's so convenient with no commitment, you'll get your hero here on easy terms, but that's the way things are.you can't change that... so i'll be here,until your last flame of interest flickers, until your last flame of interest...flickers. One little soldier stands alone.. one little soldier for the firing squad; he turned a traitor overnight, one little soldier says a last goodnight, he put his shoulder to he wheel, but i would say he got an unfair deal.. spoke his mind,too many times... and he is shot down (you shouldn't be so naive) (you shouldn't be so naive) shot down (you shouldn't be so naive) (you shouldn't be so naive) shot down... [ad infinitum] @SONG: Exist Occupy your quiet corner, as everybody does, who does not wish to raise their voice, or lacks the courage necessary; nervous,in a sea of faces; endless,ever-changing, simply waiting for someone to recognise the fact that you exist. So occupy your quiet corner, as everybody does, who does not wish to raise their voice, or lacks the courage necessary; nervous,in a sea of shit; endless,ever-changing, simply waiting for someone to recognise the fact that you exist. @SONG: Personal Loss I cry at my own personal loss, although i cannot cry too much because i know thay may be happier now, i cry because there are large scars left,by knowing you'll never see someone again. For me ,though,life just carries on and everything seems sadder, knowing there's no room for anything but being forgotten. as quickly as possible. @SONG: Travel Through A Dark Though Scented Country (instrumental) @SONG: Grey Echoes (Peacock/Fitzgerald) London is just grey echoes bad memories,and dreams, and someone far away, london is all final messages written on the walls in final bloodstreams, desperate people - clutching at,or clinging to their hopes, that better times exist, they're always somewhere just around the corner, just around the corner, just around the corner, just around the corner, and on the walls,their final messages are scribbled out again, and again,and again,and again. London is just grey echoes bad memories,and dreams, and someone far away. Desperate people - hoping that someone will smile their way and take away their problems today but,on the walls their final messages... are scribbled out again, and again,and again,and again,and again, desperate people, hoping that someone will smile their way and take away their problems today; but on the walls their final messages are scribbled out again. London is just grey echoes bad memories,and dreams, and someone far away. desperate people. @SONG: World Is Getting Better Am i a traitor to the cause? a cause of nauseation - for you?..you?..you?...you......you gave me all the answers - what we could do,what we would do,what we should do, and must,just..i was always busy,always mindless,always dizzy, always just confused,by everything, so i'd just stand and sing,that the world is getting better,the world is getting better, the world is getting better,and it's problems have all gone away. Tell me your solutions,i beg your absolution you can help me,i can help you,add two and two and two and two and you can keep the street,just give me a beating; i have no choice,i have no money and no voice,and the world is getting better,the world is getting better, and,when the revolution comes - who'll be the number one? I never wanted much now i sit here,in my hutch and just wait,for them to come; i never wanted much now i sit here,in my hutch and just wait for them to come, to come,and take me,take me, take me,take me away,away. @SONG: Solve I say life is pointless, worthless,and meaningless, you say 'well..try suicide', i say no,because i know the reasons why i find life so; i'm only one tiny piece in this enormous mess... There's no reason why i should die if i can only find some hope if i can only find some answers that's my idea of national service. Listen to all the pop songs.. music's just a luxury item anyway, and you'll all pay to have yourselves condemned, condemned to tread the same old paths, unfair affairs,and broken hearts, read cosmopolitian,and consume; 'why won't he buy me the moon?' i won't cry,if you go away, i'll still have myself,anyway, i can exist quite alone, i have problems of my own to solve, solve,solve... @SONG: My Death (J.Brel,M.Shuman,E.Blau) My death waits like an old roue' so confident that i'll go his way whistle for him and the passing time... my death waits like a bible truth at the funerals of my youth where we laughed at that - the passing time.. my death waits like a witch at night just as surely as our love is right oh,let's not think about the passing time. For whatever lies behind the door there is nothing much to do now... angel or devil,well,i don't care for,in front of that door... there is you. My death waits like a beggar blind who sees the world with an unlit mind throw him a dime for the passing time... my death waits to allow my friends just one or two good times before it all ends we'll drink to that to the passing time.. my death waits there,between your thighs, your cool fingers will close my eyes, let's not think about the passing time. For whatever... And my death waits in the falling leaves in a magician's mysterious sleeves; with his rabbits,with his doves, with his passing time... my death waits there,in all the flowers where the blackest shadows will cower where the lilacs chime for the passing time.. my death waits there,in your double bed your cool fingers against my head oh,let's not think about the passing time. @SONG: Work I will not work for you,to earn a living. life is something you are born with, not just something you are granted by some fictional form of superior human being, there is no form of superior human being. i will not work for you,to earn a living; life is something your born with, not something your granted. @SONG: Gifts And Telegrams Small wooden building, on a road in the middle of nowhere; trees catch fire,quite close by, the sun bleaches your bones. cattle grazing,cattle bells ring, the sound of choirs gathering, their teaching everyone to sing along with queen victoria's hymns of praise. Small wooden building, where another one recieves the cane, another one can't add 2 and 2,yet, another one can't quite spell his name. the missionary laughs; some children laugh, some children cry, they run along,behind his moped, whistling and waving him goodbye, goodbye..goodbye..goodbye... Large concrete building,now, we send them more incentives, we send them gifts,and telegrams, saying 'do come to england' we'll meet you at the airport, we'll greet you at the quay, with promise of a job,a house, food and education. @SONG: Punch In a small,but perfect,playpen, they practise,badly,being grown-ups, no-one makes the right decisions, throwing childish tantrums; their mummy never gave them a dummy, busy in her perfect kitchen, daddy gave them building bricks and they built useless houses; grown as people of power now, parents disappear or die, they just poke tongues out,from inside bars at people who'd much prefer to pass them by...... He's a joke figure,taking himself serious, a gravedigger,pretending he's mysterious, a harmless little creep who keeps on telling you he's great; some madman masquerading as a head of state, punch,(joke figure) punch..punch..punch.. He's been sitting there for years; i wonder who gave him his throne? perhaps the king of england, perhaps the king of rome, perhaps his friends or relatives, who won it in some war, perhaps his mother,to shut him up - she bought it in a store; punch,(joke figures) punch..punch..punch. (repeat 1st verse) I'll make a mockery of you, i'd love to take your bones apart, i'd love to inspect your insides, and see if there's blood in your heart, i'll fuck you up,the way you fuck up everybody,every day,who look at you, and think they have some guiding star, to shine their way, but politics is a stupid game, it hasen't any rules, and 'politics' is just a word, like 'power',like 'tools' - politics is worthless, a complete waste of time, which never will quite qualify for the category of crime, punch..joke figures, punch..joke figures, punch..joke figures, punch joke figures. (repeat 2nd verse) Punch! @SONG: Island Of Lost Souls I'm like an island, i'm like a lost soul; cut off from the rest of the world. Walking the same corridors, stalking the same cold shining floors; in search of the place i will stay. I'm like an island, i'm like a lost soul; cut off from the rest of the world..... island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls. Placed on the same staircases, faced with the same choice of steps and paces; in search of the place i will stay; island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls. island of lost souls.