Drums, Backing Vocals - Nath
Guitars, Vocals - Luke
Recorded and Mixed By Nath @ Actiontrack Studio, Taunton.
With thanks to Charlie Parsons.
HONESTY VS. DEMOCRACY
Maybe you're just not that attractive?
Maybe that file shouldn't be redacted?
Either, or, how fractured the fact is
is a currency depreciating, blurring to a peace you're making,
currently a feast you're hating and hurrying a beast you're waking.
When life flashes right in front of your eyes
stop and smell the flowers for hours
and call a weed 'a weed', don't dress it up as a rose with visual prose.
When it grows, it might be little, white, but where do you draw the line?
That moral high-ground looks awfully crowded
so it might collapse under the weight while you wait
for the next black sheep to sheer and feed on.
The Devil's in the details. The tonic in your gin.
Depending on which century you were born in.
So let those without photoshop cast the first stone.
If the proof works, the truth hurts.
If you knew, you'd tell me, right?
So, yes, I want you to love me
and yes, white babies are ugly
and yes, my posture is shitty
and yes, my dick is skinny.
And no, you're not Mulder or Scully,
you're not Ed Snowden, Greenwald or Laura.
You say your lies won't hurt no flies?
Surprise, surprise, so do the guys with the files.
So maybe truth is a light best refracted
or maybe I'm just not that attractive.
'GONE GIRL' CAT VS. TWITTER EGGS
There's variety in your toolbox.
A scalpel and a sledgehammer.
A sniper and an A-bomb.
Shift keys and caps lock.
The 'B' in subtle isn't the queen,
the hive is alive and it needs to feed,
the honey is sweet, acquired tastes ignored,
the subtle bee's not welcome no more.
Oh, Kitty you're so quiet, I can hear you loud and clear.
Oh, eggs you're so loud, I'm glad my eyes are deaf.
Everyone can write but not everyone can write.
Everyone's a critic so everyone will criticise
because 10,000 hours is too much like hard work.
But hard work pays off once the hours fly by
you can kill a mockingbird or pimp a butterfly.
Oh, how we prayed for the day everybody could have their say.
Oh, what a day that be...
But how quickly saliva went dry and spit turned to bile
and bile formed a choir of delusion and hatred and gamergate rape threats from dumb fuck, white noise,
sat down sweaty, teenage boys.
Ginger cat - what are your secrets kitty?
Acid tongues won't make your life more pretty.
ANARCHISM VS. (2011) F.C BARCELONA
Would you take Bakunin? Or gladly have Xavi? Iniesta? Or Messi?
Goldman? Kropotkin? Puyol or Makhno?
Four on the front foot, four on the back.
Attack! Attack! Attack! Counter attack.
These modern girls and boys in black
could use a little humility and a lot less adjectives.
Actions are good going forward,
words leave you exposed at the back.
Don't speak like your team's undefeated if you've never had to play in the big game.
Your champions league trophy is phony
and your medals are hypothetical.
Ideas with conviction are essential
but shelves full of hyperbole and exaggeration might be good when set on fire
but aren't much good for the minds in the youth team.
Questions are vital, answers are arrogant.
D'you want a discussion or to win an argument?
Don't act like your team's undefeated if you've never had to play in the big game.
But the pigs in the NYPD choir were singing 'Galway Bay',
then they choked a man to death and got away.
And that's why vendettas with messages are still so important.
So never give up.
The playing field's not level.
Do 2-a-days uphill.
The groundsman's been bribed.
So kneecap the fucker.
Just remember your team's never played in the big game.
It's a good team but don't get carried away.
BRET EASTON ELLIS VS. GAY BABY PANDAS
It's all fun and games 'til someone gets hurt.
The bruising of bodies, the bruising of egos.
Qualify hurt? Quantify deaths and gurneys
with blankets pulled over faces too early.
Qualify offence? Quantify blog posts,
ignore the context to increase the re-blogs.
If your master status is rich, white and writing
your struggles in life won't involve too much fighting,
and if your safe space is an echo chamber
it's more dangerous than an outspoken stranger.
Hey, Bret. How old's your boyfriend?
Hey, boys. How old's your iPhone?
Hey, Bret, how goes your writing?
Hey, boys, how set's your broken bones?
Maybe Mr. Pink was right? Fuck sides, what we need here's a little solidarity.
Maybe Cyrus was right? And we've been fighting over ten square feet of ground.
However strong the hand you want to play,
surely the point is to hear no else say:
"I don't wanna feel anything anymore."
CHARLIE HEBDO VS. TYPE 2 DIABETES
A toxic environment for your brain and body.
Sugar for your rotting teeth, guns to fire your beliefs
into the heads of the guilty. Do you feel me?
I'm a genius so this cause and effect I suspect must be true
so melt some cheese on it, add extra bacon
then get on your knees and pray for the day there is one god to rule them all.
Red blood and black ink's a precious commodity,
are thousand-year-old guides intellectual property?
Maybe more so than ad-campaigns and vines
via interpretations from weirdly wired minds.
God, Allah and Ronald are idols in glass houses
mistaken for indestructible shrines.
If our pens are mightier than your swords then your gods are jokes.
Both comedy and tragedy.
Your books are of misery and ours are of mirth.
Laughing with the things, whether animal or mineral or material, that you hold dear
is the only tangible meaning of life that I've found so far
so make your peace and find your soul and be free
but also know that your god just doesn't mean shit to me.
BLACK SOCKS VS. WHITE SOCKS
Tradition is nice way of saying 'old fashioned'
and dredging up buried relics of a past that's best left fastened to
a time your grandparents knew isn't a way to get to
a place we can grow, where the mould nobody fits can overflow.
So throw away your white socks and pull on your black socks.
Gravity and Father Time will ensure your team won't remain undefeated.
You could pass the torch with grace and dignity and respect to ability
with eyes on the future of forward. Forward, forward, forward, forward.
Bitter that your feet no longer remain on the podium?
That taste has many faces, all ugly.
From day one we said we weren't serious,
then serious hit the jackpot.
People ask what music we make,
we say "speed it up, mate" that's what.
Weird it up, mate. That's what.
So 'til the day we can grow, where the mould nobody fits can overflow.
Throw away your white socks and pull on your black socks.