Lyrics

Last Day On Earth

Overture
Café Shabu
Pastoral Angst
Who's In Charge?
Short Of Time
Angel Of Death
Paradise Nevada
Old China
Ocean Life
Instrumental
Modern World
Streets Come Alive
Secrets
Maps Of The World
Broken Hearts
The High And Mighty Road

Overture

Overture - a) A Tourist - b) A Contact - c) A Prisoner

Excuse me, excuse me! Can you show me the way out of here?

Of course. This way. Just pass The Headless Horsemen, the Café Shabu.

And how far is that?

Not far. You're the tourist here, you should take it easy. If you can trust a stranger, follow me.

I don't mind if I do. I'm a stranger here with a sense of regret that I'd like to forget that I drank from a paranoid glass. I come from a paranoid base. Sure, I spent time in prison. A prison of my own devices, haven't we all? I'm a foreigner here and I'm feeling just a little worn. I'm looking for points of importance and historical interest, trapped by the same rate of exchange of that I'm running away from. And as we all know, we hate to change. But Change is a virtue, my friend. If you want to escape, all you have to do is make up your mind.

But you're not a prisoner here, and I'm made to work with my hands, part of my sentence for taking the licence to think of impossible plans. Working my fingers to the bone, keeping my hands on the rungs of that ladder, that leads us out of the gutter to the light.

It's all been a big mistake. I've done nothing wrong. I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent here. I'm just an innocent ...

[top]

Café Shabu

Welcome to the Café Shabu. Permit me to introduce you to some of our regulars. Starting on my immediate left, ladies and gentlemen, here in Café Shabu, you'll note a poet, a man of words by trade. And yes, that's a refugee from an unnamed political philosophy, come here to spread his message of joy and peace amongst us. Thank you very much sir. Over here, next to him we see a lady who has traded in a lifestyle of the rich and famous for work with underprivileged and exceptional children which I am sure makes her very pleased with herself, ladies and gentlemen. Sitting next to her a man of letters and words and moods. A man who spent most of his life deceiving himself and now finds himself facing six years in rehabilitation prison and a death sentence on the outside. Sitting next to him on a banquette, a ballerina. She's had two grapes, a raisin, and a chicklet, and she's full. In fact, she's been stuffed for years. Next to her are two spinsters knitting their way in and out of various predicaments coloured by the excesses of their ancestors. And close by them, some surreal painter's brooding over the very over-emphasis of colour-violence. Violence on the blue end of the scale. Next to them, two off-duty detectives checking each other out. Next door to the sugarholics, see them shivering, see them staring into the distance, see them growing, oh, see them go comatose. Insulin please, Maitre D'! On my immediate right several politicians smiling lizard-like, see them assure themselves that their status is indeed quo.

Rip up the cheques said the Maitre D'. See if I care. I do this for the company. I've got no-one to trust any secrets to but myself. In the basement, in the vault, in the attic on the walls are the pictures I take in part-payment for my time. And the waitress reminds you that in the backroom bathed in red, glowing with the speed of light that reflects the demands of the living for the dead, are our angels, a host at your service to meet your every need. So order up, the waitress said. Our great café serves everything.

[top]

Pastoral Angst

Welcome to the goldrush, ladies and gentlemen, where California begins and maybe ends.

California is the last stop on the great hitchhike west and now it's getting a little full. Too many thumbs. Well, when you get too many people in one place, you get intolerance and contempt and rigidity and tension and sarcasm, distrust, anxiety, envy, hate, cynicism, discontent, self-pity, malice, suspicion, jealousy and snobbishness. And this leads right into poetry, painting, sculpture, dance, music and literature, photography. These are known as the arts. And art will break your heart. So what? So will a good meal. Art is not the spiritual side of business-as-usual.

And art is not for everyone. Never has been and it never will be. Now me, I don't know much about art, but I do like what I know. You know in these days when everybody is mistaking celebrity for talent, ambition for genius, self-pity for humility, style for content and loathing for love, they spend a lot of time getting in touch with themselves. And then they find self-justification, self-righteousness, self-obsession, self-pity, self-loathing, self-concern, self-centredness, self-reliance, and self-serving gratification.

[top]

Who's In Charge?

Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge?

Is it the Army?
Is it the Money?
Are you responsible?
I'm not responsible.
You wanna die now?
Why not, it's a good day to die.

Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge?

It's not the Pope.
It's not the President.
It's not the Rabbi.
It's not the Buddha.
It's not the Natureman.
It's not the Priest.
It's not the Artists.
It's not the Geniuses.
It's not the Audience.
It's not the Critics.
Cain and Abel.
Not Romulus and Remus.

Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge? Who's in Charge?

It's not the Doctors.
It's not the Teachers.
It's not the Detectives.
It's not the Scientists.
It's not the Socialists.
It's not the Computerists.
It's not the Teamsters.
It's not the Comedians.
It's the Outlaws.
It's not the Artists.
It's the Futurists.
It's not the Dadaists.
It's the Soloists.
It's not the Audience.
It's a Mountain.
It's not Mohammed.

Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge? Who's in charge?

[top]

Short of Time

Wasting time, we wait for answers, every time we throw the dice. Breaking down all delusions, wasting time.

Finding time, we take no chances. Treating time, and pulling punches. Losing time ruins the dance. Wasting time, wasting time.

Real time gives no comfort. Space and time, planets turn. Crying time, we make the moments. Take their time.

Time is always on the menu. Killing time, there is no choice. Wasting time is like old helpless keeping time.

[top]

Angel of Death

Sushi for Shabu. You keep calling me. You keep calling me.

Angel of Death. I have thought I heard you singing.
Angel of Death. I have held the flutter of your seductive wings.
Angel of Death. I have seen you counting on shadows.
Angel of Death. I have watched you patiently waiting.
Angel of Death.

Angel of Death. I have felt the heat and the power.
Angel of Death. Emerging from your deadly silver tune.
Angel of Death. Reflections of disaster the morning after.
Angel of Death. The stories everyone sees through.
Angel of Death.

[top]

Paradise Nevada

God knows how long she was waiting on the mountain, staring at the river, watching all her dreams go by. Every single morning she sang of crystal fountains, counting the days until she spread her wings and fly. She had her eye on a man, the hero of the valley. Born in an alley wearing felony-shoes. When it came to the ladies, that man became a legend, famous for his freedom, freed to pick and choose. Lay your money, lay your money down. Lay your money, lay your money down.

It was a marriage made in heaven, meant for each other, natural born lovers want to sing each other's song. It was too good to be true, too good not to try, too soon to tell, it was too late to cry. There were shadows in [the kitchen], poison in the air. Secrets to be hidden, they were too much to care. It was lipstick for breakfast, and fine wine in a glass, resentments in the mirror, there was no way you can last. Lay your money, lay your money down. Lay your money, lay your money down.

There was static on the juke box and murder on their minds, money on the table, there were [walls left to climb]. Lights across the water, and fireworks in the sky, Paradise Nevada on the fifth night of July. Twisting like a dancer she took everything he had. This side of Whiskey nothing cut in half is bad. There are losses, there are debts, there are winners to be found, there are wagers, there are bets, there are losers in the crowd. Lay your money, lay your money down. Lay your money, lay your money down.

[top]

Old China

Sitting 'round, talking 'bout old China and how the ladies hair will go to grey, paying for a speedy revolution, hoping those fine lines will go away. Someone screams about abuse of power, so lonely there was nothing left to say, hoping for a speaking revolution, and wishing that the crimes would go away.

Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.
Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.

Dealing with the mask of your deception, I threw that other chance away today. I'd been asking for a speedy resolution, hoping other signs would go away. Since sitting here, talking 'bout old china, and how old ladies hair will go to grey, I'd been praying for a speedy resolution, expecting that the time will slip away.

Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.
Cross your heart and hope to die, it'll happen in the blinking of an eye.

[top]

Ocean Life

The sky is full of dirty, aching air, that's burning a greasy yellow and zooming slowly in on everyone.
Untie these fighting sunsets that will not be fulfilled.
The noise on her eyes is still there, even when the retina peels from the strain of the dull, sacrilegious commandment of an eye for an eye or a tooth for a truth.

Even the ocean is ghettoized now, another dirty alleyway that leads nobody home.
When you're so young and full of expectations, you're looking for that perfect wave and when you'd like to ride 'em all.
So I ask you from the bottom of my heart: is that any way to treat your mother?
Red, red, red river, bloody ocean of sorrowful memories carry me to the deep blue sea.
I hear you, calling me.

Is it true that virtue fell by the wayside?
Not even a mark.
And who will lift the fog of bitterness, pull aside the tide of regret?
Who will avoid the undertow of sentimental drift?
Who can live long on poetry and wrath?
I don't have the patience, but what does it cost on the open market? And who can afford that?

I wanna be buried in the bottom of the ocean, like Shelly Winters in "The Night of the Hunter." My hair billowing, being kissed by the fishes, Sushi for Shabu. If fishes were wishes I'd have you. I'd have you.

Ahh, I've never felt one, a tremor that is... greed, envy, lust, gluttony, anger, pride.

[top]

Instrumental

Modern World

In the shadows of the night come the friends of fantasy dancing forward toward
the dawn, wrapped in coats of vanity. In the closets in the home hang the toasts
of days gone by, breaking every haunted scheme confusing thoughts with fantasy.
This is the modern world, this is the modern world, this is the modern world.

In the backrooms where they wait, keeping time so patiently, playing cards and
casting lots, sit the last of judgement's [all]? In their confusion to deceive,
they miss the point so handily, filling every secret need. They succeed perfectly.
This is the modern world, this is the modern world, this is the modern world.

[top]

Streets Come Alive

Desperation sets the clock, buried treasure, call the shots, family jewels in the vault, sleep safe at any cost.

When the life begins to fade, snakes rattle in the cage, nasty creatures on the crawl, nothing dead as much at all.
Streets come alive after midnight.
Streets come alive after midnight.

Spot targets, pick and choose.
Rage and pain are on the move.
Fears, that's to play a part, sending daggers to the heart.
Dream scenes, forgotten lives, nightmare noise and blinded eyes, crude smell and kerosene, broken glass and strangled dreams.
Streets come alive after midnight.
Streets come alive after midnight.

[Blocked/Splashed] up your burning nose, politics step on your toes, daybreak will bring you back, bright lights will make you crack.
Streets come alive after midnight.
There are no guaranties after midnight.
Eyes in the skies after midnight.
Fire in the skies after midnight.

[top]

Secrets

"What do you think is going on here?" the old man said from his chair. "D'you think this is anything new? Now look here, son. This is just like it was back in the old days before the last war. Then the politics changed, the scene rearranged and became how we know now is quo. Oh yeah, there were times when everyone smiled and agreed and the good times would roll, but a heartbeat away was the crime that did pay - the shot that was heard around the world."
"If you go to sleep," the old man explained, "you're just going to miss on your turn. But if you stay awake the path that you take may in fact become a bridge to be burned."

And the old man turned away, (Secrets, secrets.)
wiped the sincere from his eyes. (Secrets, secrets.)
"It's already too late," he whispered, "but that's certainly no reason to cry." (Dirty little secrets)

"You see, the last pioneer is waving his flag, framing the organ, bone by bone, burning in sections, twisting his flag and walking on glass as he is clearing his tomb."
"Yeah, nevertheless, there's no money," said the kid.
"Eh well, high-price hookers are watching the math," said the old man.
"Prepare to face the music and laugh, or bring the shadows down on the heads of the soft ladies that lie on their mechanical beds."
"Well, nevertheless, there ain't no money," the kid said.
"Well, so total the future and rewrite the past," said the old man.
"Raise the hammer and stifle the news, polish the armor and dust off the grass. There's more dead-end options here than we'll ever use."
"But nevertheless, there's no money," said the kid.

"Well, hell, there's glitter galore in Italian gold." (Secrets, secrets.)
"Well, nevertheless there ain't no money." (Secrets, secrets.)
"With second-hand hardware all over the world?" (Dirty little secrets.)

"Hey, nevertheless, there ain't no money."
"Well, listen, tides have turned, the crowd's flooding in."
"Yeah, nevertheless there ain't no money."

"Hey kid, second class will sell to the valley again. Don't worry."
(Secrets, secrets.)
"Nevertheless there ain't no money, said the kid. (Secrets, secrets.) "Well, what do you want me to do about it?" said the old man. (Dirty little secrets.)
"I've come up with every argument I can for the fact that the lawyers are leeching the marrow out of the bone of anyone who's got an original idea in this country."

"Well what country are you talking about?" said the kid.
"I'm talking about the country where my nephew makes honey out of old orange peels and plastic out of old Band Aids. I'm talking about a country where the sun never sets, I'm talking about a country where fish are the bricks that build the edifices from which you can throw yourself in a veritable syndrome of court reverence. Ahaha, greed, God, and bulletproof vests."

"Nevertheless there ain't no money," said the kid.
"Marks and pounds and pieces of flesh?" said the old man.
"Nevertheless there ain't no money," said the kid.
"Hey, no protection is worth a damn," said the old man.
"Nevertheless there ain't no money," said the kid.
"They're sending the waters off Heligoland."
"Nevertheless there ain't no money," said the kid.
"They're carving the marble, shaping the urn."
"Nevertheless there ain't no money."
"A goateed image in Turkish stone?"
"Nevertheless there ain't no money. Oh my God," said the kid, "what am I going to do with my life now?"

"The woman settled for anomalous clothes and socks some place in Vermont."
"Nevertheless there ain't no money," said the old man.
(The young man is evidently not worth suing.)
"Nevertheless there ain't no money."
"The State of Vermont is in America?" said the kid.

"Nevertheless there ain't no money," said the old man.
"They're doing it again and again and again."
"Nevertheless there's no money."

[top]

Maps of the World

May I help you, sir?

Yes, I'd like to buy a map, please.

What kind of map?

As up-to-date as possible, I'm thinking of doing a bit of travelling and I need the latest world atlas.

I'm sorry but we may be in a bit of trouble there. All the maps are changing so rapidly it's difficult to follow these days since the East has returned to the dance floor.

Yes, I sense a loss of azimuth here, a falling off the edge of the world as we know it, a scattering of temples, a wish for a more modern [Cairo], a more [divisive] equator, a more beautiful sunset, a bluer sky, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Gabon, Zaire, Congo, Rwanda. I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Zimbabwe, Botswana, Lesotho, Tanzania.

The world changes partners to dance. Poor Libya, so misunderstood. The mighty Zambezi, the windblown Kalahari, a wish for a more electronic mailbox, a more African nightmare, a more vigorous Burundi, Mozambique Electronique, the armies of Namibia. Angola, who is your Cuba now? Changed partners, the world wants to dance.

I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Somalia, Equatorial Guinea, Cameroon, Togo. I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight.
Tothigua, Sierra Leone, Senegal, Western Sahara.

The maidens of Morocco, Burkina Faso the riches of Liberia, a stranger symbolism, a sand-storm of antiquities, a more beautiful sunset, a sparser continent, a bluer sky, a more disturbing rhythm, an angrier drum-beat.

I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Estonia, Latvia, Kazakhstan, Nashville. Changed partners again, changed partners just for the night.
Ankara, Enseno and Madrid, Twin Cities, Reno.

I'm leaving for home, leaving for home tonight. Inuit, Rome, Vancouver.
Changed partners again, changed partners just for the night. Afghanistan, Sardinia, Peru. Changed partners again, changed partners just for the night.
Columbia, Argentina, France, Syria, Catalan, Oslo.

[top]

Broken Hearts

Consternation on the dance-floor I can't take it anymore.
My ugly girl-friend has these big eyes, she's running out the door.
Get her back, the regulars cry.
All the bar-flies are going dry.
We need some business says the man reaching out with the greasy hand.
We need some business says the man with the broken heart.

Broken Hearts are good for business these days, broken hearts are good for business always.

Mass confusion on the turnpike, which way did the lady go?
Rumour has it she was flying through the toll-booth down the road.
Get her back, the troopers cry, all the judges need a boost, bad reviews in the daily news, and the
chickens come home to roost.

Broken Hearts are good for business these days, broken hearts are good for business always.

[top]

The High and Mighty Road

Before the end of the beginning, before the finish credits role, there is a brief but brutal truth along the high and mighty road. Faces tend to run together, names be lost and legends told, of the ways to be forgiven on that high and mighty road.

There is a will to test the power, there is the struggle for control of the basic rights of passage along the high and mighty road.

It is a journey for the taking, it is a choice that can be made.
It is the soul that may be shaken, it is the spirit to be sane.

There is hypocrisy and wonder, when fortunes pale and empires home to an ancient way of magic along a high and mighty road.
Money changers seeking payments for the privileged to be so bold, to say the train is not too crowded for a high and mighty road.
And the courage may be tested, by judgement harsh and cold, from the monitors of progress along that high and mighty road.

There are the words that have been spoken, there is the life that's been portrayed, it is a promise to be broken, it is the joy that dies in vain.

Pale treasure, fragile beauty, or the messages set in coal, we delivered as nostalgic on that high and mighty road.

Sacrifice and deprivation are spiteful paradoxes sold as begrudging restitutions along that high and mighty road.

And yet the faces, oh God the faces, they seldom change from young to old, they only seem to grow more brazen along the high and mighty road.
It is the future we are trading, it is the prices that we pay, it is the mind that is mistaken, it is the heart we give away.