21st century Prophet's Blues

So I was wondering how the world would treat a new prophet, and I decided it would not be very well.

I went down to the ocean's edge, and the ocean spoke to me,
And it washed me with its salty tears, and told me I was free.
I went to the top of the distant mountains, filled my lungs with ice-cold air,
And the sun looked down, his eye like fire, and fixed me with his stare.

So I made my way to the coolest valley, to a place where the sun don't shine,
And hid in there, 'til he ceased to stare, but then darkness came to dine.
And the darkness licked its lips at me, and I glimpsed its yellow eyes,
So I ran as far as my feet would carry, towards the red sunrise.

I went to the rim of the fiery volcano, put my face to the red-hot granite,
And it spoke to me of age-old things, as old as the heart of this planet.
I walked in the desert til my feet were raw, and the clothes tore off my back,
And God spoke to me, and his words were pure, and then he sent me back.

I walked to the edge of the great highway that crosses from sea to sea
And the trucks rushing by, between earth and sky, whispered their words to me.
And their whispered words, like little bug turds, so small as to go undetected,
But I knew Gods word, for He spoke it to me, and the word is “Resurrected”.

And now I’m down at the infirmary, getting my prescription filled,
There’s Lithium, and Modecate, and I rattle from all the pills.
Doctors won’t believe that I talk to God; they tell my folks that I’m disturbed,
So I smile at them, and take the pills, but still I hear God’s word.

Now I’m locked in a little white room, padded like Heaven’s clouds,
And God is there - he’s with me too, safe from the madding crowds,
And he talks to me, and I write it down, from sunrise into the night,
And he tells me soon his time will come, he’s just waiting ‘til the time is right.

Yes, I’m locked in a little white room, padded like Heaven’s clouds,
And God is there - he’s with me too, safe from the madding crowds,
And he talks to me, and I write it down, from sunrise into the night,
Tells me that he’ll be coming back soon - he’s just waiting ‘til the time is right.

© Copyright David Burne, Jan 2000, Control.

Chained to the Wheel

The White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Work Ethic is a con job, and as we subscribe to the con, we find ourselves locked into the consequences.

These days, it seems, we live our lives in strangled desperation.
Like little mice, trapped in the wheel, each day another iteration.
Repetition, repetition, repeating the same routine,
We do it ‘til we drop, or fade, grey cogs in a grey machine.

You think money gives you freedom? You think it gives you power?
You’re still chained like a slave to the wheel, hour after hour.
Desperation, desperation, can’t you taste its smell?
Imprisoned by expectations, you bark at the sound of the money bell.

You think you’re liberated, ‘cos you’re not chained to a kitchen sink?
Take a look around you, sisters, take some time to think.
Compromises, compromises, sacrifices, too,
Grinding your nose against a different stone, you’ve been suckered, too.

Nobody’s free, we’re all prisoners, it shouldn’t come as a shock,
We’re punching in, and punching out, we’re all watching the clock.
Corporations, corporations, they all own our lives,
They’ll end up owning our children, and their husbands and their wives.

Repetition, repetition, repeating the same routine,
We do it ‘til we drop, or fade, grey cogs in a grey machine.
Desperation, desperation, can’t you taste its smell?
Imprisoned by expectations, you bark at the sound of the money bell.
Compromises, compromises, sacrifices, too,
Grinding your nose against a different stone, you’ve been suckered, too.
Corporations, corporations, they all own our lives,
They’ll end up owning our children, and their husbands and their wives.


© Copyright David Burne 1998, All Rights Reserved

Burning Bush

Katrina has laid waste to New Orleans, the War Against Terror is not going well, and Australian Prime Minister John Howard (John the Baptist) is crawling up Dubbya's fundamental orifice..........

John the Baptist, well, he swears he’ll make ‘em pay.
All the unbelievers, they’re just zombies anyway.
They’re dead but they don’t know it, dead or maybe worse.
Dead between the eyes. Is that a blessing or a curse?

George has got a Holy List, of all he plans to smite.
Mohammed smells a jihad, Israel’s busting for a fight.
From New Orleans to Baghdad, Sarajevo to the Hindu Kush,
The natives are lighting grassfires; they can smell a burning Bush.

Louisiana is under water, there’s pestilence and blight.
Bush is at his mirror facing the armies of the night.
While over in the Holy Lands, petrodollars pile on high.
A ziggurat of filthy spoil, that stretches to the sky.

The place smells of corruption, everything here seems to spoil.
All the plans and all the scams, yet still we thirst for oil.
Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink.
Problems, problems, everywhere, and never time to think.

The commander’s looking vulnerable, got the smell of rancid meat,
Can’t stop from falling over, when he tries thinking on his feet.
They’re looking for a scapegoat, someone to sacrifice.
They’re tightening the thumbscrews, putting fingers in the vice.

The crowd is getting restless; the place has gone ballistic,
Honour and truth are dead; they’re just another statistic.
We’ll have a lovely funeral, there’ll be no bodies left to burn,
We’ll hover and throw our flowers, wait patiently in turn.

There’s parcel-bombs and car-bombs, canisters of hate.
Bars are on the window. Guards are on the gate.
No point staying in this place, there’s nowhere left to hide.
It seems a little pointless when the enemy’s inside.

Can’t seem to escape the hatred, it repels yet it attracts us,
Can't seem to escape the evil, when we’re standing at its axis.
Can’t seem to escape the warfare, the gunfire and the killing.
So much money from the armaments, so seductive and so thrilling.

Are we really infidels, barbarians at the gate?
Mix in a little greed; let’s stoke it up with hate.
George has got a Holy List, of all he plans to smite.
Elvis has left the building. Jesus left last night.
Krishna’s got her hands full; Buddha’s got the push.
They’re burning little effigies; they can smell a burning Bush.

© Copyright David Burne, Jan 2008