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Z(u, w) = Z0(w)[1-exp{-b(w)u}]
...and she said "Well I don't think you're a fishmonger. I think you've done a plop in the wrong lavatory." -
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Z(u, w) = Z0(w)[1-exp{-b(w)u}]
...and she said "Well I don't think you're a fishmonger. I think you've done a plop in the wrong lavatory."Comment
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found this after windows 8 commercial..glad I did because their look and the sound dont mix LOL which makes it that much more interesting
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Z(u, w) = Z0(w)[1-exp{-b(w)u}]
...and she said "Well I don't think you're a fishmonger. I think you've done a plop in the wrong lavatory."Comment
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Filled with love and compassion. As she fixes her
make-up for a day of fun He reads the news, it
depresses her. With reports of death by bomb and
gun Astride their horses in the winter lanes. They
smile at nature with tenderness They hear the
call, hold hands with pride. And look down at the
bloody mess
And civilized upright citizens grin, as the dog's
teeth tear at shrieking skin This ain't savagery;
it's jolly old culture. As they stand and wait for
death like vultures She laughs as the bloody fur's
flying. Re-applies her lipstick as the animals
crying He claims the tail as privileged prize. And
kicks the mangled corpse aside
The time has come when we all must turn around and
start to think No more standing in the corner.
Question the missing link The link that created
the misery and pain. That sees the mistakes, but
then makes them again You've heard it once; you'll
hear it again. Your blood, their blood serves the
same
There they stand and there they grin. Never
thinking or questioning "Why blood of
innocents must be spilt". They smile but they
hide their guilt That their life is built
upon a pile of bodies. Slaughtered animals?
Slaughtered squaddies? The pleasure they take from
another's death. Hides the truth that murder feeds
their wealth
She smiles at him as dead eyes stare. He takes her
hand and strokes her hair His fingertips soaked in
misery are the mark of aristocracy And the broken
form lying in the ditch. The handiwork of the dog
and bitch Bears the label of decency. The honour
given so graciously
And backs are slapped in celebration. The success
of extermination Freedom maintained so humanely.
As they wipe their hands of blame so bravely Back
at home she wears the fur that proves his precious
love for her Death and glory on her shoulders sit.
As the master takes what's rightfully his
Murder is committed in the guise of sport. Ripping
flesh is given no thought Glasses are raised in
dedication. The crime is given a justification
Heart beats faster, eyes wide and staring. Death
comes whistling cold, uncaring Slaughtered
animals, slaughtered squaddies. Their wealth is
built from murdered bodiesZ(u, w) = Z0(w)[1-exp{-b(w)u}]
...and she said "Well I don't think you're a fishmonger. I think you've done a plop in the wrong lavatory."Comment
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When you woke this morning you looked so rocky-eyed,
Blue and white normally, but strange ringed like that in black.
It doesn't get much better, your voice can get just ripped up shooting in vain,
Maybe someone hears what you say, but you're still on your own at night.
You've got to make such a noise to understand the silence.
Screaming like a jackass, ringing ears so you can't hear the silence
Even when it's there - like the wind seen from the window,
Seeing it, but not being touched by it.
HOW DOES IT FEEL?
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Young boys rest now, cold graves in cold earth.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Sunken eyes, lost now; empty sockets in futile death.
Your arrogance has gutted these bodies of life,
Your deceit fooled them that it was worth the sacrifice.
Your lies persuaded people to accept the wasted blood,
Your filthy pride cleansed you of the doubt you should have had.
You smile in the face of the death cause you are so proud and vain,
Your inhumanity stops you from realising the pain
That you inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered -
It was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
You never wanted peace or solution,
From the start you lusted after war and destruction.
Your blood-soaked reason ruled out other choices,
Your mockery gagged more moderate voices.
So keen to play your bloody part, so impatient that your war be fought.
Iron Lady with your stone heart so eager that the lesson be taught
That you inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered -
It was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Young boys rest now, cold graves in cold earth.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Sunken eyes, lost now; empty sockets in futile death.
Throughout our history you and your kind
Have stolen the young bodies of the living
To be twisted and torn in filthy war.
What right have you to defile those births?
What right have you to devour that flesh?
What right to spit on hope with the gory madness
That you inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered -
It was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Young boys rest now, cold graves in cold earth.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Sunken eyes, lost now; empty sockets in futile death.
You accuse us of disrespect for the dead,
But it was you who slaughtered out of national pride.
Just how much did you care? What respect did you have
As you sent those bodies to their communal grave?
You buried them rough-handed, they'd given you their all,
That once living flesh defiled in the hell
That you inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered -
It was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
You use those deaths to achieve your ends still,
Using the corpses as a moral blackmail.
You say "Think of what those young men gave"
As you try to bind us in your living death,
Yet we do think of them, ice cold and silent
In the snow covered moorlands, stopped by the violence
That you inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered -
It was your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Young boys rest now, cold graves in cold earth.
How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - We don't want your fucking war!
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - We don't want your fucking war!
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - We don't want your fucking war!
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 You can stuff your fucking war!Z(u, w) = Z0(w)[1-exp{-b(w)u}]
...and she said "Well I don't think you're a fishmonger. I think you've done a plop in the wrong lavatory."Comment
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Henry Rollins cameo at /after 47 seconds LOLComment
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interestingComment
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Z(u, w) = Z0(w)[1-exp{-b(w)u}]
...and she said "Well I don't think you're a fishmonger. I think you've done a plop in the wrong lavatory."Comment
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