From Cuba to Istanbul

Istanbul, Constantinople!

Nine lives left so don’t court disaster
Nine lives left and time is our master
Though we’re walking slow our hearts beating faster
Make our way to Istanbul

Now the crescent moon and the stars that that reach beyond
Whisper to us secrets I can only find in
Istanbul

Long time gone ‘nuff roads we a travel
Let me concentrate these puzzles unravel
Not feh dance with death but look to the future
For we reach the gates of Istanbul

Now the crescent moon and the stars that that reach beyond
Whisper to us secrets I can only find in
Istanbul

Darling take my hand
And try to understand
Many have failed to make it
To pass on through the gates of
Istanbul.

Ska cubano. Istanbul (Constantinople).

School of hard knocks, sir

"I was born under a wandering star
in the second council house of Virgo
Forceply removed from the belly of my ma
and raised on milk and Pernod
So just lie back and think of England
Because I slid down bannisters
for judges and bannisters
reader's wives' husbands
with toothless decay
I've been GBH'd and ABH'd
for a packet of B & H
I've been taken
and I've been driven away
I was fornicating
before I could read or write
and now I can't stop, sir
I graduated from the Universty of Life
and the school of hard knocks, sir
And my telephone is always ringing
and my number is triple-X directory
call 0898 treble three
Talk dirty to me
Oh come on all ye unfaithful,
joyful, triumphant and pathetically weak
I've been Amsterdamned, Reeperbahned,
wham bam no thank you mammed
If the spirit is willing
then the telephone's cheap
And if you want to step outside love
you step outside love with me
You can step outside with me
And if we ever meet again
Don't know where
and I don't care when
I'm gonna help you with you're sickness
like a Jehovah's Witness
you'll be born again
and again, and again
Just lie back, close your eyes
and think of England
and what England's done for me."

Carter USM, England.

You can live for no one else

No more waiting on them
As you rise inside new rooms
It's official, you've gone
You can live for no one else
Man, the guilt must be huge
There's no gain in failure
You succeed in being mine
Hi'a old friend, see you there
I will be proud from afar
I can paint a picture
In a moment of memories
And there aren't many left
I am extradited, uninvited.

It's just another Saturday.

Take a step to freedom
You and her against this cruel world
Take a breath of shelter then exhale.
Trust in allegiance
Liberate yourself from hell.

It's just another Saturday.

Lagwagon, May 16th.

My closest friend linoleum

Possessions never meant anything to me
I'm not crazy
Well that's not true, I've got a bed, and a guitar
And a dog named Bob who pisses on my floor
That's right, I've got a floor
So what, so what, so what?
I've got pockets full of kleenex and lint and holes
Where everything important to me
Just seems to fall right down my leg
And on to the floor
My closest friend linoleum.
Linoleum.

Supports my head, gives me something to believe
That's me on the beachside combing the sand
Metal meter in my hand
Sporting a pocket full of change
That's me on the street with a violin under my chin
Playing with a grin, singing gibberish
That's me on the back of the bus
That's me in the cell
That's me inside your head.

NOFX, Linoleum.

Even the eagle has to land

Nothing here to fear
I’m just sitting around
being foolish when there
is work to be done.
Just a hang-up call
and the quiet breathing
of our Persian
we call Cajun,
on a Wednesday.

So we go from year to year
with secrets we’ve been
keeping,
though you say you’re
not a Templar man.
Seems as if we’re
circling for very
different reasons.
But one day the Eagle
has to land.

Out past the fountain
a left by the station
I start the day
in the usual way.
Then think
- well why not -
and stop for a coffee
then begin to recall
things that you say.

No one’s at the door.
You suggest a ghost
perhaps a phantom.
I agree with this in part.
Something is with us
I can’t put my finger on
– is Thumbalina size 10
on a Wednesday –.

So we go from year to year
with secrets we’ve been
keeping
though you say you’re
not a Templar man.
You tell me to cheer up.
You suspect we’re
oddly even.
Even still
the Eagle has to land.

Out past the fountain
a left by the station
I start the day
in the usual way.
Then think - well why not -
and stop for a coffee
and begin to recall
things that you say.
Pluck up the courage
and snap it’s gone again
I start humming
‘When Doves Cry’.

Can someone help me
I think that I’m
lost here.
Lost in a place
called America."

Tori Amos, Wednesday.