The kings of anarchy are coming.
While you sleep, we are plotting our next move.
We’re on the street, with hate in our hearts
Where only love should be.
We are at home in big gagged night.
We daub graffiti on gravestones,
Daring death to come and get us.
Then we set fire to the city.
Look at the pretty flames, darling.
And when the revolution comes,
Meet me at the barricades.
To our enemy, the Establishment,
Set your alarm clocks.
World on my Shoulders
I was born fighting.
I was schooled in sadness.
And love didn’t die, it was killed.
Barman, another pint of Lethe over ‘ere.
I thought I’d feel better, but I don’t. I feel worse.
So it’s out onto these dead streets as the rain slants down,
With the mind yelling, ‘I’ve got to get out of here! I’ve got to get out!’
All too sober, I go back to my rented room in hell,
Crawl in through the catflap, over a slew of junk mail,
And climb the stairs, in this house of stairs.
Up in my room, I warm my hands over the bedside lamp
As rain blurs the darkening window.
The ghost in the glass keeps looking at me,
Before turning away, as I turn.
For, tonight, I'm in an end-of-time mood.
I feel the pain of a million people. – But what’s that?
Mr Krook’s knocking because he wants his money.
How am I supposed to write with this racket?
There’ll be blood on the carpet tonight, I know it.
I’ve a lot on my mind and not much time.
I’ve got to finish this before the world ends.
Mark Kirkbride © 2010