Bertie's B

The mother of the nation has gone; she has hobbled off to her uncertain fate, having only a tycoon's salary given to her to fund the purchase of that monkey-shit-brown hair rinse we know so well
Y act like nothing ever happened, but it did. it's too late--too late for the thousands driven to mental illness, premature old age and suicide by the force-feeding to them of a daily diet of de
And the doctrine of their own obsolescence. too late for the thousands of teenagers who grew up illiterate but unaccountably proud that their nation spent the money it could have been spent on
Ting them to buy guns--guns which this country is too feeble and unimportant to need to use.

It's too late to stop the rot--a rot she denied existed and which many thus forgot, which continued to accelerate and and now will not be stopped until all this fucking pretense is dropped. mari
Gas yoni, intellectual born-again right-wing son of a bitch from the exotic other end of the earth, venus flytrap lips curling over straw-coloured front teeth, so smart, so alert, so elegant...a
S the departed killer for her "courage". tonight he speaks with reggie gurdjieff, most intelligent man in the uk, about new novel shag auntie peggy, and on his plan for a junk bond iss
Finance the privitization of the llama. but first, the bad weather...

August the 20th: yes, folks, it's another cold, clammy day in england. a large crowd has gathered around the police station. everybody--everybody--wishes to have contact with a certain little ir
Riter within. not to discuss his works, though the works are known to them; they've been published in the tabloid papers by the police under the heading "barbaric butcher's brochures".
They want to tear his very head from his body, for what it is alleged he did in the way of mortal damage to two soldiers in a nearby public lavatory. the night draws in. nobody would say a word
Him, except a fool like me [(and his skin)].

In rainy ireland in the 50's
There outside a pink farmhouse door
A small bertie, playing at digging trenches,
Asks, "daddy, what's the blowtorch for?"
He said, "the torch will cut the cars to turn them into sculpture
So i can express what i feel. the college men may laugh,
The farmers persecute me, but i do for myself. so should you."

Come look at bertie's brochures
You'll be enchanted, i am sure
The whole world's in bertie's brochures:
All the wisdom, the smiles of dear friends

Through freakshow britain, through the eighties
Bertie works in labs, though his father's aims still endure
Though only at night does he do his real work
Learning, writing his brochures...

For he still believes that everyone's a poet
And that all he has to do is to set it down
And so transform the milkman,
The waitress and the gunman into immortal art!!

Now they're laughing at bertie's brochures
Detectives with crowbars and skewers
They see things in bertie's brochures:
Their own hatred of all other races and their fear

Don't laugh at bertie's brochures
He would not if they were yours
So what if your enemy is there?
Bertie's an artist, so why should he care?
It's the north european peasant experience

The jet plane draws a jagged wound along the dimming autumn sky
His breath steams on ahead of him as through the tenement he does stride
To knock upon some doors
The boy who asked for more
And who hid his real fears so the people just saw...
They saw him smiling
They only ever saw him smiling

He breathes the air of the barber's shop
The steam, smoke and cheap cologne
He says, "old man, tell this razor blade
How much you want to be left alone."
Over the mirror to the left
A postcard girl with naked breasts
Brings us greetings from crete to this ugly man's street just by smiling
Look, she's all smiling

Yeah, she pouts and acts hot with james bond on his yacht
His arching eyebrow, his martini seed
While in her village in milan starving people stole cans
And [bad] silver or the loser will bleed

In a few more years the cruel boy makes his way
Up to where the real power is
Until a bomb in his car blows him all over a wall
And his comrades shake their fists
We see the biggest killers of all who say they are appalled
They say, "our rage is extreme," but you know what they mean
Upstairs they're smiling
Still scared and smiling