Some Friday night banter I'll start with this one - clever and thought provoking lyrics - No....Surrender Big Macs for the fat, low-cal wraps for the call center battery hens Japanese snacks for the choice-spoilt citizens Caviar kickbacks for the citadel denizens Airport shoe-shines servicing the suits, Among the little silver stereos and hand-rolled cheroots First class passengers file on last, after the scum are packed in with their tax-free loot. Checkout calamity, you're cheated out of loyalty points Ten more years at this joint you'd be home and dry Beggars beat round the cash machine but you just slip between them with the usual lie And terrible tales of kidnapped kids keep you focused on the family and filling up the fridge Neighborhood watchers shop dole dodgers, stick their semis on the market and start racking up the bids Should you stand and fight? Should you die for what you think is right? So your useless contribution will be remembered If you're asking me I say “no, surrender” “No, surrender” Constant growth, the cancerous cure, A swarming race of profiteers ensure, cheap cars for the rich, Cheap lives for the poor, cheap weeks in the sun, free drinks at the door Puerile propaganda plugs up the TV Keep folk following the money so they'll never be free Keep them swallowing the swill, the celebrities, the pedophiles, the immigrants invading from the camp over the hill War talk, the big debate, foot soldiers in the capital liberating new kinds of hate Cum-shots of human dots caught in the spotlight's glare, he dies who dares Fatuous fast-trackers sneering at the shelf-stackers, little Middle-Englanders can't stand the backpackers, Fortress Freedom, come on in, take your chances, you might win Should you stand and fight? Should you die for what you think is right? So your useless contribution will be remembered If you're asking me I say “no, surrender” “No, surrender” Sunset beaches security patrolled, Keep out the undesirables who don't accept the code, Equal opportunity to live in total poverty, Execute the ignorant, incarcerate the slow Car caressing managers choking up the avenues, Brain dead patriots standing in salute Paperwork raining again and again so that billionaires can claim there's an enemy to shoot Pill pushers, door steppers, personal goal shoppers, lifestyle trendsetters, meditating mindbenders, Hare-brained share sellers pumping out stocks till you're choking on a chain-letter avalanche of dross God squads crawling through every country tracking down fools who are bullshit hungry Blinded by divinity, followers fall into the man-traps set along the Wailing Wall Athletes compete in grand charades while tanks flatten streets and a nation laughs Visa holders gape at the changing guards, while creeps bribe bums to take their photographs Film fans flock to the latest schlock, blockbusters block out even the vaguest thought Bankrupt schools grind out fool after fool then feed them to a system where idiots rule Polling booths, phone votes, bogus questionnaires You get a say as if anybody cares Joe Public doesn't want to play so liquidate his life as he looks the other way Don't get sick, don't get wise or they'll gut you with a justice where everything is lies March down Main Street, complain if you want but it's twenty years straight for the losers at the front
I listen to quite a bit of political orientated music, but it's hip-hop therefore nobody wants me to share it I don't care for the content but the rappers are **** hot.
Diddles tried to put "won't get fooled again" by the who - can i f**k work out how to get a url from this new tablet thing onto the board ( mind this bottle of shiraz isn't helping)
This guy Vinnie Paz he's very controversial but this one is about his mental health: And one of his political ones:
See that black boy over there, runnin' scared his ol' man's in a bottle. He done quit his 9 to 5 he drink full time so now he's livin' in the bottle. See that black boy over there, runnin' scared his ol' man got a problem and it's a bad one Pawned off damn near everything, his ol' woman's weddin' ring for a bottle. And don't you think it's a crime when time after time, people in the bottle. See that sista, sho wuz fine before she started drinkin' wine from the bottle. Said her ol' man committed a crime and he's doin' time, so now she's in the bottle. She's out there on the avenue, all by herself sho' needs help from the bottle. Preacherman tried to help her out, she cussed him out and hit him in the head with a bottle. And don't you think it's a crime when time after time, people in the bottle. See that gent in the wrinkled suit he done damn near blown his cool to the bottle He wuz a doctor helpin' young girls along if they wuzn't too far gone to have problems. But defenders of the dollar eagle Said "What you doin', Doc, it ain't legal," and now he's in the bottle. Now we watch him everyday tryin' to chase the pigeons away from the bottle. And don't you think it's a crime when time after time, people in the bottle.
You will not be able to stay home, brother. You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out. You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip out for beer during commercials, Because the revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox In 4 parts without commercial interruptions. The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams and Mendel Rivers to eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia. The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal. The revolution will not get rid of the nubs. The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner, the revolution will not be televised, Brother. There will be no pictures of you and Willie Mays pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run, or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance. NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32 on reports from 29 districts. The revolution will not be televised. There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the instant replay. There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process. There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving For just the right occasion. Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction will no longer be so god damned relevant, and women will not care if Dick finally screwed Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people will be in the street looking for a brighter day. The revolution will not be televised. There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock news and no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose. The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb or Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash or Englebert Humperdink. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be right back after a message about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people. You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl. The revolution will not go better with Coke. The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath. The revolution will put you in the driver's seat. The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised, will not be televised, will not be televised. The revolution will be no re-run brothers; The revolution will be live.
Mother, mother There's too many of you crying Brother, brother, brother There's far too many of you dying You know we've got to find a way To bring some lovin' here today - Ya Father, father We don't need to escalate You see, war is not the answer For only love can conquer hate You know we've got to find a way To bring some lovin' here today Picket lines and picket signs Don't punish me with brutality Talk to me, so you can see Oh, what's going on What's going on Ya, what's going on Ah, what's going on In the mean time Right on, baby Right on Right on Mother, mother, everybody thinks we're wrong Oh, but who are they to judge us Simply because our hair is long Oh, you know we've got to find a way To bring some understanding here today Oh Picket lines and picket signs Don't punish me with brutality Talk to me So you can see What's going on Ya, what's going on Tell me what's going on I'll tell you what's going on - Uh Right on baby Right on bab
THE DURHAM LOCK-OUT by Tommy Armstrong (1848-1920) In wor Durham County, I'm sorry for to say That hunger and starvation is increasing every day For the want of food and coals, we know not what to do But with your kind assistance, we'll stand the struggle through I need not state the reason why we have been brought so low The masters have behaved unkind, as everyone well know Because we won't lie down and let them treat us as they like To punish us they've stopped the pits and caused the present strike The pulley wheel have ceased to turn which went so swift around The horses and the ponies too are brought from underground Our work is taken from us now, they care not if we die For they can eat the best of food and drink the best when dry The miner and his marra, too, each morning have to roam To seek for bread to feed the hungry little ones at home The flour barrel is empty now, wor true and faithful friend Which makes the thousands wish today the strike was at an end We have done our very best as honest working men To let the pits commence again, we've offered to them ten The offer they will not accept, they firmly do demand Thirteen and a half percent or let the collieries stand Well let them stand or let them lie to do with them as they choose To give them thirteen and a half we ever shall refuse They're always willing to receive, but never inclined to give And very soon they won't allow a working man to live. This would be sung around the pubs in Newcastle, Sunderland and Durham with the hat passed round to help miners striking over a 13.5% wage reduction demand by local coal owners (one of whom might well have been Samuel Tyzack, SAFC's treasurer!). Unfortunately, like nearly all of Armstrong's songs, no date is recorded so we can't be sure about this strike. It was probably 1892, however, when the whole of County Durham was involved. There's an old recording at :