Harry Whitewolf's Blog - Posts Tagged "new-beat-newbie"
The Invasion Of Web Into Heads' Webs and other verse vids
Here are my three latest short videos of contemporary performance beat poetry for your viewing and listening pleasure (or other emotion, depending on your point of view).
SICK OF POLITICS
This was a staple favourite to perform back in the day when I actually performed my poetry live!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR55L...
FRACK OFF
An anti-fracking poem with looping fracking beats!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuWnE...
THE INVASION OF WEB INTO HEADS' WEBS
Wanna see the Whitewolf perform poetry whilst head-wrapped in cables?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSFjB...
SICK OF POLITICS
This was a staple favourite to perform back in the day when I actually performed my poetry live!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR55L...
FRACK OFF
An anti-fracking poem with looping fracking beats!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuWnE...
THE INVASION OF WEB INTO HEADS' WEBS
Wanna see the Whitewolf perform poetry whilst head-wrapped in cables?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSFjB...
Interview with a Whitewolf.
Paul Howsley, author of The Year of the Badgers and blogger of social justice issues was kind enough to recently offer me an interview.
You can read it here:
https://paulhowsley.wordpress.com/201...
Cheers!
And thanks to Paul and Rupert Dreyfus for making it happen.
You can read it here:
https://paulhowsley.wordpress.com/201...
Cheers!
And thanks to Paul and Rupert Dreyfus for making it happen.
TWO BEAT NEWBIE IS COMING...
It won't be out until March, but here's a sneaky peak at my sequel to New Beat Newbie
TWO BEAT NEWBIE:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7YM_...
TWO BEAT NEWBIE:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7YM_...
NEWSPEAK, DOUBLESPEAK, PROPAGANDA NOWSPEAK.
Here's a brand new piece from my forthcoming Two Beat Newbie book:
NEWSPEAK, DOUBLESPEAK, PROPAGANDA NOWSPEAK.
Friendly Fire = Friendly.
Anarchism = Violence.
Peace Keepers = Peace.
Democracy = Equality.
Capitalism = Democracy.
Capitalism = The Only Sensible World There Is.
Democracy = Capitalism.
Anti-Capitalism = Communism.
Socialism = A Bit Like Communism.
Vote Boycotting = You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are To Have The Vote.
Not Backing Your Soldiers 100% = Suspicious.
Islam = Terrorism.
Terrorism = Middle East.
Allah and Jehovah = Not The Same God.
Christianity = Good.
Islam = Bad.
Minimum Wage = Fairness.
Public Money Spent On War = Security.
Classified = For Your Own Safety.
The News = Absolute Truth.
Television = The Real World.
The Internet = The Real World.
Video Games= The Real World.
Nigel Farage = Nice Bloke Who Must Be One Of Us Because He Drinks And Smokes.
David Cameron = Oh He Must Be Alright, He’s Called Dave.
Russell Brand = Don’t Take His Views Seriously.
Jeremy Clarkson = It’s Very Important That You Should Always Know About Jeremy Clarkson.
Advertisements = Things You Should Have, Need And Deserve.
Latest Models = Things You Need Because Other People Don’t Have Them Yet.
Meat = Not Animal.
Meat = Animal.
Humanity = The Greatest.
Career = Life.
Money = Life.
Life = The Human World.
Sex = Nothing Is As Important As Sex.
Love = Rom-com Happy Ending.
Drugs = Bad.
Prescribed Drugs = Good.
Another Country = Not As Good As Our Country.
The System = Serving You.
Building New Builds = There’s A Housing Crisis.
Building New Roads = Getting Somewhere Quicker Is More Important Than Nature And The Environment.
Charity = Once A Year Telethons.
Grace = Will And Grace.
The National Lottery = It Could Be You.
Washing Powder = This One Is Definitely Better Than The One We Had Last Year And The Year Before That And…
Toilet Tissue = Much More Important Than You Think.
Conspiracy Theorist = A Nutty, Gaga, Lala, Kook, Cuckoo, Screwed Up, Boozed Up, Mashed Up, Mad As A Brush, Bonkers, Conkers, What A Plonker, Crazy Person.
1984 = Fiction.
NEWSPEAK, DOUBLESPEAK, PROPAGANDA NOWSPEAK.
Friendly Fire = Friendly.
Anarchism = Violence.
Peace Keepers = Peace.
Democracy = Equality.
Capitalism = Democracy.
Capitalism = The Only Sensible World There Is.
Democracy = Capitalism.
Anti-Capitalism = Communism.
Socialism = A Bit Like Communism.
Vote Boycotting = You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are To Have The Vote.
Not Backing Your Soldiers 100% = Suspicious.
Islam = Terrorism.
Terrorism = Middle East.
Allah and Jehovah = Not The Same God.
Christianity = Good.
Islam = Bad.
Minimum Wage = Fairness.
Public Money Spent On War = Security.
Classified = For Your Own Safety.
The News = Absolute Truth.
Television = The Real World.
The Internet = The Real World.
Video Games= The Real World.
Nigel Farage = Nice Bloke Who Must Be One Of Us Because He Drinks And Smokes.
David Cameron = Oh He Must Be Alright, He’s Called Dave.
Russell Brand = Don’t Take His Views Seriously.
Jeremy Clarkson = It’s Very Important That You Should Always Know About Jeremy Clarkson.
Advertisements = Things You Should Have, Need And Deserve.
Latest Models = Things You Need Because Other People Don’t Have Them Yet.
Meat = Not Animal.
Meat = Animal.
Humanity = The Greatest.
Career = Life.
Money = Life.
Life = The Human World.
Sex = Nothing Is As Important As Sex.
Love = Rom-com Happy Ending.
Drugs = Bad.
Prescribed Drugs = Good.
Another Country = Not As Good As Our Country.
The System = Serving You.
Building New Builds = There’s A Housing Crisis.
Building New Roads = Getting Somewhere Quicker Is More Important Than Nature And The Environment.
Charity = Once A Year Telethons.
Grace = Will And Grace.
The National Lottery = It Could Be You.
Washing Powder = This One Is Definitely Better Than The One We Had Last Year And The Year Before That And…
Toilet Tissue = Much More Important Than You Think.
Conspiracy Theorist = A Nutty, Gaga, Lala, Kook, Cuckoo, Screwed Up, Boozed Up, Mashed Up, Mad As A Brush, Bonkers, Conkers, What A Plonker, Crazy Person.
1984 = Fiction.
TWO BEAT NEWBIE - OUT NOW!
A New Beat Newbie number twobie? Ooby dooby! Yes indeedy, we’re back in the slams of British wry wit verse jams. A lyrical, satirical, unequalled sequel with words like hot treacle. A call to be peaceful. Set to the beats, y’all. Find poems and prose full of politics, lunatics, rhythmic kicks, digital ticks, hedonistic highs and desperate fights, alongside conspiracy facts, plastic bags and modern age mockery, mixed with spoonfuls of sage-full top-notchery. Phew! Stop by, do. Don’t be averse. Sample some unique new wonders of wicked Whitewolf verse!
Including: Postman Pot, Bilderbergers And Fries, 100 Channels Of Crap, Gimme Medication, The Newtopia Newbies, Dig It All Digital, F*** You GCHQ, Tridentity, Yawn Porn, and the rollicking ride of Right On Brighton.
So come on, don’t be loopy- read Two Beat Newbie!
Two Beat Newbie is now available in Kindle and paperback editions.
FREE ON KINDLE: 4th February - 8th February.
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Two-Beat-Newbie...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Two-Beat-Newb...
Paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Two-Beat-Newbie...
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Two-Beat-Newb...
Many thanks to everybody's support. Love to you all.
:)
RIGHT ON BRIGHTON
If I'm allowed to have a personal favourite poem from my Two Beat Newbie book, then Right On Brighton (the longest poem in the collection by far!) would be it:
RIGHT ON BRIGHTON
Just outta uni.
I was a real Real World Fresher.
Where could this featherweight newbie
Of this new century, go for his pleasure?
Hmm. Needed a new home.
Went down to Brighton where everyone’s green and stoned.
On my own.
Alone.
Down to Brighton where everyone’s gay.
Down to Brighton, where hippies are O.K.
The lights on in Brighton, where people have their say.
The big band bang boom and the tie-dye bop, smelly basement rooms and late night bus stops. Hip hop, chip shops, wearing flip flops, feeling tip top, never stop. Opt for late night clubs kicking comedic blubs and poetry slams and funk soul jams. Get a veggie burger from Grubbs.
**
Downing lager, by the beach, down in Brighton. Right on Brighton. Got the sights on. Got the lights on. Locked the highs on. Nice one. Hopping the highlights of hot sagas that race through my mind. Drinking mad hop lagers for the sake of fake rhymes, when the spell of Real Ale was always more my thing. Leaving Brighton’s seaside to one side, I’m thinking ‘bout wannabe Kurts, crusties, yurts, King Kurt T-shirts, shirkers, dread heads, head-shrinkers, burks, chav bling and youthful stride things. Living it up in strobe dubbed shake lighting. First high flying years in Brighton, right on, crazy Brighton, high with the lights on, quick like lightning, were a blast and fast and now past, but cast a fishing line from my mind back to the chats and the squats and the girls I had the hots for and the dim, dingy dealers’ pungent poky smoky flats, and Concorde 2 gigs, Komedia comics, cigs and all that. After work gorge at The Dorset and George, fall to the floors. Any takers for Basketmakers? And all the other lovely-jubbly bubbling pubs in the Lanes and all the subs. The entertaining drinks and grub. Getting high on doorsteps. Grooving up cool clubs.
**
See Arthouse World flicks at Duke of York’s. Tea at the caf, stirred with plastic forks. Get your copy of SchNEWS. Go to private views. Hear the beat of small bar blues. Hen party Valkyries. Art galleries. And geezers on good salaries, listening to Valerie, before it was Winehouse actually. And dub. Boy, down in Brighton, right on Brighton, the shakes were sure hot. Remember making it young, uncaring and alive, the guys and high fives, and the girls never got. The whirls, the mods, moody blues and bad moods. And self-proclaimed gods. Quirks, smirks and jerks. Jammers and jitters. Pints of bitter and carpet fitters. The protesters, anarchists, activists, the revellers, the Levellers, The Level, the lefties, the arties, house parties, the Commies, eco-friendlies, the cafs, the gift of the gabs, Alan’s friend Babs, Albion fans, albinos, fake tans, trans-genders on benders, drag queens on the scene, hang about at Tragic Roundabout and Eighties Matchbox concert bouts. The smokers, the jokers, midnight tokers, anti-voters and Attila The Stockbroker.
**
You’ll find more truth seekers there. Down in Blighty’s Brighton blimey seaside air. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Always a party. Everyone’s arty. Everyone’s vegan. Hm, fucking squawking, squealing, black bin bag ripping seagulls. Arseholes. Anyway, Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Vegetarians, Vespas, hipsters, queens, has-beens, times good, Infinity Foods, Brighton rock and riots. Quiet. Smoke some weed, in our flat, playing board games and all that, with tunes and deep chat, people passing through, all knowing where it’s at. Chilling or standing up on our feet, dancing to The Streets, or some ska beats or Undertones, Stevie Wonder and The Ramones and Stones, and Bentley Rhythm Ace and Small Faces in haze. Smokes with The Strokes. Always broke. Not too much coke. The twirls and jokes, the girls and blokes who like boys to be girls who do boys in Blurred plagiarised quotes of rude boy shenanigans. Sing along again, high on hash with Johnny Cash, The Clash and Ash. De La Soul, maybe Ben Folds, and The Las, playing along with guitars. Billy Bragg. Arab Strap. Put on Dolly Parton, Frank Black, Jack White, Al Green, Patti Smith, Portishead, Grateful Dead, Hunky Dory, Gorky 5, Mogwai, The Pharcyde, The Hives, Derek and Clive, and Lee Scratch Perry, or watching the telly, filling our bellies with munchies, slow Brighton paced, can’t be arsed, watch Spaced, our flat adorned with post-student knickknacks and tatt you think you’re always gonna want to keep. Wrong. Back to the clubs and the pubs and the dub and the rub and rub-a-dub and rubber gloves and push and shoves and bars and ha-has and hoo-has. Brighton. Brighton. Right on. Yurt makers and yogis and Dolies and homeopathists and marches and artists and buskers and smugglers and jugglers and hustlers, down by the bright Brighton seaside.
**
Take a stroll on the pier. Smell some gear in the air. There’s a homeless man. Just there. Now here’re the festivals, Fat Boy on the beach, Pride in the park, passing joints in side streets, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. Seems so sweet. Those first fond years, the beers, the cheers, the chat, the bric-a-brac, the Snoopers Paradise fix, the politics, the lunatics, freethinkers, tinkers, smokers and in-jokers; ‘cos you know it’s Hove actually.
**
Cursed heavy hangovers cured like ham by noon snakebite hair of the dog. Cut to the night. Coming up drug. Getting around. Coming down. Buggery bollocks. Hug a tree. Free. Curling smoke. Always a joke. The dog’s bollocks. Top dogs. Peace frogs. Top Cat in the doghouse chat. Drinking down at Hector’s House. A wee dram. Am-dram plays above the pubs. Arches clubs. Archie’s bullshit and pitbull dogs. Full-of-shit prog-rocker dealers’ green door knockers, goddamn DJ gobshites and whities. Go down to the seafront at night-time in slippers and nighties. Alrighty.
**
Fist bumping mates popping round. Getting around, getting down in Kemp Town, with unkempt beds. Ashtrays surround. Getting high. Hello. Goodbye. Going out. Raucous and roaring in ferocious and precocious shouts. Round about. Down ‘ere, down there. Got an allotment under the stairs. Score a quick henry from Benny’s mate Claire. Rock stars and porn stars and born stars and writers and freedom fighters and cigarette lighters and the famous and nameless. Know-it-alls. Poets. Cools. And activists and actors, sculptors, producers, models, musicians, guitarists, Nick Cave, Paul McCartney, the bloke from The Fast Show (before he was the bloke from Harry Potter, but after he was the bloke from that advert who said, “We wanna be together.” What? You think I’m losing the non-UK and under thirty audience here? Who cares? I know what pants and sloppy joes are, don’t I? – the question is rhetorical, so let’s get back on topic, y’all.), Chris Eubank and his damn big dumb truck, the crusties, the skankers, the wankers, the skaters, the seekers, the shakers, Hare Krishnas and skins. Magpie bin men. The chancers, the dancers, the bouncers, half-ouncers, the anarchists, the taking the piss, the mates in a band, the parks, the punks, the drunks, junkies, joggers and rockers, the lazy, the crazy, the can’t be arsed, the mods and the mads and the off of their rockers. Try it on with a girl down the dark beach. Smashed up on mushrooms and head pumping beats. Walk back in late streets on two too tired feet. Whoosh! The West Pier is on fire. Best bang our drums then and get a bit higher, and take in the heat in laidback back seats.
**
Ashtrays overflowing with after-party cig butts. Freebutt gig band geezers eating banging All Day Breakfasts at the All Night Diner Dime Bar, smoking big cigars amongst ha-has, cha-chas, minds charred, strumming guitars and maybe sitars and drumming on tables on Mars, down in Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. When the music was loud, as were the words of proud opinions, but it was also all bullshit. ‘Cos we love Brit cynicism. Down in hopping, bopping Brighton, right on Brighton, don’t be frightened, it’s more or less dangerous with the lights on, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. High times and nice times in right on Brighton. Right on, Brighton. Nice one.
***
RIGHT ON BRIGHTON
Just outta uni.
I was a real Real World Fresher.
Where could this featherweight newbie
Of this new century, go for his pleasure?
Hmm. Needed a new home.
Went down to Brighton where everyone’s green and stoned.
On my own.
Alone.
Down to Brighton where everyone’s gay.
Down to Brighton, where hippies are O.K.
The lights on in Brighton, where people have their say.
The big band bang boom and the tie-dye bop, smelly basement rooms and late night bus stops. Hip hop, chip shops, wearing flip flops, feeling tip top, never stop. Opt for late night clubs kicking comedic blubs and poetry slams and funk soul jams. Get a veggie burger from Grubbs.
**
Downing lager, by the beach, down in Brighton. Right on Brighton. Got the sights on. Got the lights on. Locked the highs on. Nice one. Hopping the highlights of hot sagas that race through my mind. Drinking mad hop lagers for the sake of fake rhymes, when the spell of Real Ale was always more my thing. Leaving Brighton’s seaside to one side, I’m thinking ‘bout wannabe Kurts, crusties, yurts, King Kurt T-shirts, shirkers, dread heads, head-shrinkers, burks, chav bling and youthful stride things. Living it up in strobe dubbed shake lighting. First high flying years in Brighton, right on, crazy Brighton, high with the lights on, quick like lightning, were a blast and fast and now past, but cast a fishing line from my mind back to the chats and the squats and the girls I had the hots for and the dim, dingy dealers’ pungent poky smoky flats, and Concorde 2 gigs, Komedia comics, cigs and all that. After work gorge at The Dorset and George, fall to the floors. Any takers for Basketmakers? And all the other lovely-jubbly bubbling pubs in the Lanes and all the subs. The entertaining drinks and grub. Getting high on doorsteps. Grooving up cool clubs.
**
See Arthouse World flicks at Duke of York’s. Tea at the caf, stirred with plastic forks. Get your copy of SchNEWS. Go to private views. Hear the beat of small bar blues. Hen party Valkyries. Art galleries. And geezers on good salaries, listening to Valerie, before it was Winehouse actually. And dub. Boy, down in Brighton, right on Brighton, the shakes were sure hot. Remember making it young, uncaring and alive, the guys and high fives, and the girls never got. The whirls, the mods, moody blues and bad moods. And self-proclaimed gods. Quirks, smirks and jerks. Jammers and jitters. Pints of bitter and carpet fitters. The protesters, anarchists, activists, the revellers, the Levellers, The Level, the lefties, the arties, house parties, the Commies, eco-friendlies, the cafs, the gift of the gabs, Alan’s friend Babs, Albion fans, albinos, fake tans, trans-genders on benders, drag queens on the scene, hang about at Tragic Roundabout and Eighties Matchbox concert bouts. The smokers, the jokers, midnight tokers, anti-voters and Attila The Stockbroker.
**
You’ll find more truth seekers there. Down in Blighty’s Brighton blimey seaside air. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Always a party. Everyone’s arty. Everyone’s vegan. Hm, fucking squawking, squealing, black bin bag ripping seagulls. Arseholes. Anyway, Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. Nice one. Vegetarians, Vespas, hipsters, queens, has-beens, times good, Infinity Foods, Brighton rock and riots. Quiet. Smoke some weed, in our flat, playing board games and all that, with tunes and deep chat, people passing through, all knowing where it’s at. Chilling or standing up on our feet, dancing to The Streets, or some ska beats or Undertones, Stevie Wonder and The Ramones and Stones, and Bentley Rhythm Ace and Small Faces in haze. Smokes with The Strokes. Always broke. Not too much coke. The twirls and jokes, the girls and blokes who like boys to be girls who do boys in Blurred plagiarised quotes of rude boy shenanigans. Sing along again, high on hash with Johnny Cash, The Clash and Ash. De La Soul, maybe Ben Folds, and The Las, playing along with guitars. Billy Bragg. Arab Strap. Put on Dolly Parton, Frank Black, Jack White, Al Green, Patti Smith, Portishead, Grateful Dead, Hunky Dory, Gorky 5, Mogwai, The Pharcyde, The Hives, Derek and Clive, and Lee Scratch Perry, or watching the telly, filling our bellies with munchies, slow Brighton paced, can’t be arsed, watch Spaced, our flat adorned with post-student knickknacks and tatt you think you’re always gonna want to keep. Wrong. Back to the clubs and the pubs and the dub and the rub and rub-a-dub and rubber gloves and push and shoves and bars and ha-has and hoo-has. Brighton. Brighton. Right on. Yurt makers and yogis and Dolies and homeopathists and marches and artists and buskers and smugglers and jugglers and hustlers, down by the bright Brighton seaside.
**
Take a stroll on the pier. Smell some gear in the air. There’s a homeless man. Just there. Now here’re the festivals, Fat Boy on the beach, Pride in the park, passing joints in side streets, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. Seems so sweet. Those first fond years, the beers, the cheers, the chat, the bric-a-brac, the Snoopers Paradise fix, the politics, the lunatics, freethinkers, tinkers, smokers and in-jokers; ‘cos you know it’s Hove actually.
**
Cursed heavy hangovers cured like ham by noon snakebite hair of the dog. Cut to the night. Coming up drug. Getting around. Coming down. Buggery bollocks. Hug a tree. Free. Curling smoke. Always a joke. The dog’s bollocks. Top dogs. Peace frogs. Top Cat in the doghouse chat. Drinking down at Hector’s House. A wee dram. Am-dram plays above the pubs. Arches clubs. Archie’s bullshit and pitbull dogs. Full-of-shit prog-rocker dealers’ green door knockers, goddamn DJ gobshites and whities. Go down to the seafront at night-time in slippers and nighties. Alrighty.
**
Fist bumping mates popping round. Getting around, getting down in Kemp Town, with unkempt beds. Ashtrays surround. Getting high. Hello. Goodbye. Going out. Raucous and roaring in ferocious and precocious shouts. Round about. Down ‘ere, down there. Got an allotment under the stairs. Score a quick henry from Benny’s mate Claire. Rock stars and porn stars and born stars and writers and freedom fighters and cigarette lighters and the famous and nameless. Know-it-alls. Poets. Cools. And activists and actors, sculptors, producers, models, musicians, guitarists, Nick Cave, Paul McCartney, the bloke from The Fast Show (before he was the bloke from Harry Potter, but after he was the bloke from that advert who said, “We wanna be together.” What? You think I’m losing the non-UK and under thirty audience here? Who cares? I know what pants and sloppy joes are, don’t I? – the question is rhetorical, so let’s get back on topic, y’all.), Chris Eubank and his damn big dumb truck, the crusties, the skankers, the wankers, the skaters, the seekers, the shakers, Hare Krishnas and skins. Magpie bin men. The chancers, the dancers, the bouncers, half-ouncers, the anarchists, the taking the piss, the mates in a band, the parks, the punks, the drunks, junkies, joggers and rockers, the lazy, the crazy, the can’t be arsed, the mods and the mads and the off of their rockers. Try it on with a girl down the dark beach. Smashed up on mushrooms and head pumping beats. Walk back in late streets on two too tired feet. Whoosh! The West Pier is on fire. Best bang our drums then and get a bit higher, and take in the heat in laidback back seats.
**
Ashtrays overflowing with after-party cig butts. Freebutt gig band geezers eating banging All Day Breakfasts at the All Night Diner Dime Bar, smoking big cigars amongst ha-has, cha-chas, minds charred, strumming guitars and maybe sitars and drumming on tables on Mars, down in Brighton. Brighton. Right on Brighton. When the music was loud, as were the words of proud opinions, but it was also all bullshit. ‘Cos we love Brit cynicism. Down in hopping, bopping Brighton, right on Brighton, don’t be frightened, it’s more or less dangerous with the lights on, down in Brighton, right on Brighton. High times and nice times in right on Brighton. Right on, Brighton. Nice one.
***
FRACK OFF!
In light of yesterday's governmental decision that horizontal fracking can go ahead in Lancashire, in a landmark ruling for the UK shale gas industry (https://socialistworker.co.uk/art/434...), I thought I'd post this poem of mine from New Beat Newbie:
FRACK OFF
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Disturbing earth's stability
And its inner soul.
Fucking fecking fracking
It's fracking out of control.
No wonder the world's
In such a state,
With tearful floods
At her every gate,
When we keep fucking it up.
Fracking it up.
Cocking it up.
Cracking up.
Cracking the earth, making her roar,
Fucking, fecking fracking. What for?
For the crude of two words
That won't last anyway.
When we've burned all the oil
And are drowned in dismay,
I hope you fuckers
Remember the day,
When we said no to fracking.
No fucking way.
Fuck off
You frackers
With your
Ugly fracas.
Frack and frack,
Frack and frack,
Down and down,
Crude from a crack.
Fracking and fracking
And fracking. Fuck me,
When will people open
Their eyes up and see
What we're still doing
To our once paradise?
Fucking it up,
'Cos car parks are nice,
Just like the cars
That run on the oil,
So Shell will dig wells,
And BP will boil.
Fracking fuckers.
Frack off the lot.
Fuck fracking. Fuck fracking.
And those calling the shots.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
FRACK OFF
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Disturbing earth's stability
And its inner soul.
Fucking fecking fracking
It's fracking out of control.
No wonder the world's
In such a state,
With tearful floods
At her every gate,
When we keep fucking it up.
Fracking it up.
Cocking it up.
Cracking up.
Cracking the earth, making her roar,
Fucking, fecking fracking. What for?
For the crude of two words
That won't last anyway.
When we've burned all the oil
And are drowned in dismay,
I hope you fuckers
Remember the day,
When we said no to fracking.
No fucking way.
Fuck off
You frackers
With your
Ugly fracas.
Frack and frack,
Frack and frack,
Down and down,
Crude from a crack.
Fracking and fracking
And fracking. Fuck me,
When will people open
Their eyes up and see
What we're still doing
To our once paradise?
Fucking it up,
'Cos car parks are nice,
Just like the cars
That run on the oil,
So Shell will dig wells,
And BP will boil.
Fracking fuckers.
Frack off the lot.
Fuck fracking. Fuck fracking.
And those calling the shots.
Shattering the earth.
Damaging. Crack crack cracking.
Fracking, fracking, fracking.
Fucking, fecking fracking.
