gigabahamut666: (silence)
[personal profile] gigabahamut666
Frank Turner. A lot.




Me and my friend Dan are going to get some beers
and then we're going to go down to the park and drink them there.
We'll bask out in the sun, bring a guitar and play some songs,
call up our friends and invite them out
to share what might be the last weekend of the summer,
because September's getting colder as it goes.
And we haven't done enough of this simple kind of stuff this year.
It's clear we're getting older and it shows.

Work weeks make us weary now and school's a distant memory
and it's easy to ask questions of ourselves, like:
where it is we're going now and what we have to show for all the sunny days
shut up in the shells of expectations of our ultimate directions,
and the stations that we should have reached by now,
when we haven't read the script and our tender wings are clipped,
and we're scared we might be letting someone down.

So we listen to these heartbreak songs when nothing's really wrong,
and we smile when we're asked and say we're fine.
But we're drifting through our middle days,
creeping into middle age, setting in our ways...
But now it's time to decide,
now it's time to draw a line in the sand
and ask what's more important than days like today?
So grab some beers, call your friends and meet us here,
in the summer park with me and my friend Dan.





So now the years are rolling by,
and it’s not long since you and I could have been train drivers and astronauts.
And now we’re stuck in furnished ruts,
but yet the thing that really cuts is that we can’t remember how we got caught.
Filtered air, computer screens, muffled sighs and might-have-beens
count your blessings, then breathe, and count to ten.
And though it doesn’t often show, we are scared
because we know that our forefathers were farmers and fishermen.

And so the world has changed, worse or better’s hard to tell,
but my hope remains within the arms of Isabel.

So now our calloused hands once told a story honest
as it’s old of sowing seeds and setting sail.
But now our hands are soft and weak
and working seven days a week at these salvation schemes that are bound to fail.

And so the world has changed, worse or better’s hard to tell,
but my hope remains within the arms of Isabel.

And I’ll admit that I am scared of what I don’t understand.
But darling, if you’re there, gentle voice and soothing hands,
to quiet my despair, to shore up all my plans, darling, if you’re there...

And so the world has changed, and I must change as well.
The machines we’ve made will damn us into hell.
And so the time will come when all must save themselves.
I will save my soul within the arms of Isabel.


And my favourite of the lot.




Let’s inherit the earth, because no one else is taking it.
Come on, do your worst, before the moment’s passed.
In bedrooms across England, and all the Western world,
there’s posters and there’s magazines but the music isn’t ours.

Because we write love songs in C, we do politics in G,
we sing songs about our friends in E minor.
So tear down the stars now and take up your guitars:
come on folks and try this at home.

Let’s stop waiting around for someone to patronize us.
Let’s hammer out a sound that speaks of where we’ve been.
Forget about the haircuts, the stupid skinny jeans,
the stampedes and the irony, the media-fed scenes.

Because we write love songs in C, we do politics in G,
we sing songs about our friends in E minor.
So tear down the stars now and take up your guitars:
come on folks and try this at home.

Because the only thing that punk rock should ever really mean
is not sitting round and waiting for the lights to go green,
and not thinking that you’re better because you’re stood up on a stage.
If you’re oh so fucking different then who cares what you have to say?

Because there’s no such thing as rock stars, there’s just people who play music,
and some of them are just like us, and some of them are dicks.
So quick, turn off your stereo, pick up that pen and paper,
you could do much better than some skinny half-arsed English country singer

Because we write love songs in C, we do politics in G,
we sing songs about our friends in E minor.
So tear down the stars now and take up your guitars:
come on folks and try this at home.
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February 2012

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