The Iron Man

The Iron Man is cast out
And laughed out upon its clunkyness
Haha what a mess cried the local vests
For he is made out of a hoover built in vancouver
That the foriegn legions of the braging parades
Look at what we brought too this country
And how it stayed they praved
but the locals were very vocal
about their discontent as the way of the work went
Lets blame the government and call it hell bent
As they sieged towards its learing glare
From the tin foil eyes staring just right there
With the spot lights blairing
Tinting right there
And his biscuit tin arms swing loose and thin
His amstrad vocal card jetted out
All crinkled and hard shout what going on
They locals replied this is you final song
As they armed themselves with what they thought
Were burners and axes
But even though the Locals were very vocal
They were not very focal
So instead the had superglue and sax's
Ha ha ha you are utterly displaxic
Laughed the iron man sounding like he was coming from a can
From somewhere like Budapest or Pakistan
Iam here to stay and I will put you all in play like a poker game
You see I was made of supertrue
And not that rubbish Uhu glue
Burn hime scoft the vocal local
Who were not very focal
As they tried to light the nibs of the glue tube nibs
And try and hit him
With the razor blunt sax's
This for the razing of our taxes
And our job axes the not very foccal locals screamed
Swinging and missing lumping each other in the face
What a public disgrace!

Break Out

Break on out
To try and not
Let those voices
Get you right on down
Even though they are
Running you on the
Same old broken grounds

When you try and find your feet
Did you find yourself tumbling on down?
Were the questions so perplexing
That you were confused beguiled
Because you kept on thinking
Like a dranged child
Running on wild
Into the grey stone haze
Dripping with a black and white memmory
Of how life used to be
Dreaming of the things
That turned to dust
With the greatest of plans
And real life scams
To earn yourself the dream
Glam dram that you ran along
With I'm a supstar shlong
For it all to go wrong

Break on out
To try and not
Let those voices
Get you right on down
Even though they are
Running you on the
Same old broken grounds

So when you lying in a pram
did you ever think you would become
Such a strangely textured man?
With insecurities that does not
Want to play on the ill of ease
I mean I can pay for you
Just don't expect me to please you
I want to be MR Sympathy
But there is a Devil in me
Just choking on my voice of prosperity
Trying to join the dots od integrity
Like badly woven fabrics
Tattered and freyed
As everything that is false
Flambed and flanked
as those mateiriel dreams seem to fade

Break on out
To try and not
Let those voices
Get you right on down
Even though they are
Running you on the
Same old broken grounds

So try and trample your feet
Make a stance oh so neat
and not at all weak at the knees
To depleet yourself
with mental illness and wealt
Standing by in shody health
just waltering in stealth!

Boyband

Your so cool
And not at all a fool
People would scream
At the latest teen idols
Flashing blazen clean
On the front covers of the magazines
Only to be rejected
By the spontainious redials
As the boy bands fans
Haud like swelling glands
Crushing with stampedes
Of trippling feet
To greet the false dawning
Of pomposity
Miming with all to well
Timed senses of perfection
As the same old spokes
of the overly oild machine
As everything seemed to gleam
With a deadly unrealistic sheen
Oh you have to be so keen
To look at me with any kind of disparatee
For in reallity we are just weeded out
Glamour rags with no personality
I mean look at this glossy magazine
And turn to page 17
For there is picture
Of me with the queen
Feeling so prestine
As his eyes would shimmer
A reflective repartee
And the family friendly feed
They would put on as armoury
To defend thee
To hide the thrift reallity
Dawning choruses of oh look at me
Don't I look good in tweed
Oh waht a perspective to have
When your downing rights
10 street thunder
And no that is not me
Blundering out of the club
Sucking upto pigs
For the sweets of what was
Once Top Of the Pops jamboree
From the clanging sounds of Jimmy Savill
To the 90's separtee
Of the two step dance moves
We repeat with irony
So come put a smile on our faces
For we are pop pickers tastes
As we are dancing along
Tony Blakburns face
With a gleam and glammour
Of the TV streams
Live audience kick and stream
With bloody mass tears
As their pop idols come fallin
Crashing out of their heavenly air!

9/6/2009

Death of the Optimist

DEATH OF THE OPTIMIST

Ladies and Gentlemen I want to make an anouncement
In the corner is the death of the Optimist
Calling on all Mourners ready to recite the hopes of his life
As he watched it washing around to paupers
Lacking from funding and appreciated hands
To build something that stands out these bare hands
And the creative words that he slurred with the burning finger tips
Lets halk them off they cried with jelousy and careless bodies
Wanting to stop and control everything with a jot, jot, jot

So we burried the Optimist with all the smiles that he bore
timbered up in an oak framed box with all his woulds, could and coulds
Cooped up into his lasting memmories of creativities In the labours glee
that brought about sunshine smiles long evapourated to the pennies rolling out of pockets
As the funding was shutting down like a cap on creativities crown
Oh so we will make you all drown
because you come from the same town as Van Gough, Monet and Picasso or Renoire
With all the other artists lofts and paintbrushes in the air
And scream we are writers not fighters
Painters not surplainters of flse pretences
As we find creativity wanting to be hung drawn a quatred

So lets Laugh at the Optimists grave
And say how good it was for us to make creativity our slavoury
As we indulged into the mundane copying of the want to be's for the pennies to ease
Because creativity is seen as a deadly disease
We dont design for people with differences to breath on the same terms as everybody else
Oh god theres a spastic with the creativity disease lets tax every breath he breathes
Lets face it we are all charities in need
The Optimist would plead tears
Please give me some spare change to makes this worth many smiles
Because all he wants to do is live and breath with the freedom of fresh air