Our God’s Are Falling Down

Parliament’s a brothel
The heart of the sweaty city
Pumping all that clotted blood
Through those hopeless limbs.
People frantic and love -struck
Guardedly sleaze the open corridors littered with cast-off contraception.
For a moment,just a moment
Their sticky impotence finding comfort in a homely lonely cinema
Half full of the smoke of a death wish culture
Death hovers over all
And the buildings crumble.
Slowly crippled broken windows, falling spires
Our Gods are falling down
Look at my works ye mighty and despair
The greatest happiness
For the greatest wallet
Encouraging growth of the greatest girth.
Grass dies, time flies and we ‘progress’.
Desert the old
They cannot please
They have no use.
Nora had a family
Then she had a stroke
Now she’s very lucky if she recognizes folk
We laugh,We lock them up
He screams and rolls his eyes
We throw him nuts.
Who’s crazy now?
We expect to gain perspective
By looking through kaleidoscopes
Colourful but, fake.
Staking all on others
And waiting for the change
There are many ways of living
And some have lived in vain
Cars and trains slither
Down the ice.
Down the tube to the empty platform
Seeing all the town and none of it.
Blindly we watch the people
Dreams as the whore
Bravely models her scars on T.V.
Transfixed to the screen.
We the clientele slouch at home
Gloating over favorites.
Paying for the privilege,
This is the scene
This is the market.
Where is the pimp that started it all??

Lyrics: Ben Corrigan
Music: Thatcher On Acid
From the album: Frank