1. |
Armistice
04:08
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In the cemetery at solstice
On a bench, there in the snow
I can't remember quite what happened as I sat
I suppose I ought to chalk it up to over-stress
Hello, Armistice
I am insincere
I am invalid
I am cowardice
I am innocent, but not victimless
Hello Armistice, I'm conscript
Hello Armistice, I'm war-ravaged
Hello, Armistice
Are you listening?
Hello blackout blinds, I've left the crib
And I'm stumbling
And the air raid sirens sing
And now mother's entering
And she can't see a thing...
Armistice!
Hello, Armistice
I'm Dresden
Hello, Dresden
I am Auschwitz
Auschwitz, I am Hiroshima
Hiroshima, I am Guernica
I am Stalingrad
I am all the mouthless dead; Sorley laying there with them
I'm The Millions of Mouthless Dead
HA!
HA HA!
HA HA HA!
Hello Armistice,
I've lost my head
Hello Armistice,
I'm heaven-sent
I am Journey's End
I am why you wet the bed
I am why your nerves are spent
I'll be with you 'till the end
Please don't leave me 'till the end
Would you fetch more opium?
Armistice?
Armistice.
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2. |
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3. |
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I spent twenty hours submerged in the depths
30 feet below Yarmouth in a ballasted shed
Though I am nothing but a cart-maker
I am something of a carpenter
Penurious in more ways than one
Obstinate and inclement in
Temperament
But I have a plan that will make a rich man of me yet
Mr Blake, you are known about town as unscrupulous
Or notorious
I'm quite serious when I say
This is the perfect wager to take
Though I am nothing but a cart-maker
They call me something of a character
Downcast in more ways than one
With such a penurious disposition
And ever so jealous of my fame
Ever so jealous of my fame
Or so they say
Or so they say
So they say
But I so long to go below
I long to go below
And I have a plan that will make us both rich men
Mr Blake have us gathered in
Plymouth on the 20th
Loan me the price of a ship (Loan me the price of a ship!)
And you'll be well repaid (When last bets are placed!)
O, Maria, are you seaworthy?
Maria, would you stay with me to the ocean floor?
300 feet below for two dozen hours
75 empty hogshead inside to aid the
Trip back to surface where I will be
Greeted with cheers
Though I am nothing but a wainwright
If I can build a submersible rig
Then I can make both of us rich
When the last bets are placed
When the ballasts are laid
When the marching band plays
And the sounding was taken, but the floats never raised
When the ballasts were laid
But the floats never raised
And I won't be coming up again
And I won't be coming up again
Maria, are you seaworthy?
Maria, would you stay with me?
To the ocean floor?
O, Maria
Are you seaworthy?
Maria, would you stay with me?
To the ocean floor
To the ocean floor
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4. |
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These fields could all be home for all I care. Unsoiled. Pastoral. Soon to be trampled. Leave it all behind; the infantry. Here they come.
So say you, unprepared to die. You want to run and hide. Were told stragglers will be shot. What say you, coward? Ripe from retreating to the Marne. Claims that he slept inside a farm. Just like home. Private. This is the final call to arms. In retreat, just like the season. Couldn't explain why he had taken off, only that his memory's unclear. That he don't know. Brother.
Just pray they'll aim their rifles high. You must stand your ground this time. Stood weary from retreat. So brave, you. Soldier. Once before abandoning his post, to join a unit closer to his brother. Served some forty days inside the hole, the while suffering from yellow fever. But chief signed the verdict from the top. Our orders are that stragglers will be shot. We'll be shot. Thomas.
Deserter. Deserved more. '95 for what? To be disowned and then forgot up on the hill we used to walk, where no one walks. And there, born 1895. For what cause? What this great nation promised him; the long walk to scaffolding. Dare I beg you. Aim the rifles. Aim the rifles. Dare I beg you. Would you aim your rifle high? I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Through world war, the trenches; the tempest.
Fire!
So say you, aim the rifles high. Upon the hill we used to climb. The name that they refused to write. On Shoreham hill we used to climb. And I'll be left out.
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Screed England, UK
Screed is the histrionic death rattle of writer Linden Davis and a loose assembly of other musicians, envisioned as an
outlet for more words and feelings than would be otherwise be acceptable elsewhere.
The term screed (“a long piece of writing, particularly one that is tedious or expresses an unreasonably strong opinion") was adopted after being discovered in the E. M. Forster novel Maurice.
... more
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