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lyrics

Take your gun.
take your clothes,
take your country.

Take a life.
Take another,
get paid.

Our country pays for service with body parts and PTSD.
Hands out dogs in compensation;
something they fail to mention when you sign up:
Eyes bright like those of the young pup you’ll receive when you return to these seas.
Wash the disease of war off your back
so you don’t track it into the house.
if only you had your doubts before;
you can’t even pronounce dissociation properly!
At least you’re looking far more bodily than your pals.
Bottle it up.
Go to the pubs that veterans frequent and ask yourself what the fuck it all meant.
Taking the first steps into descent,
stepping down onto the seventh circle.
Only fraud and treachery left below you now with no reversal.
Once you kill another,
there is no recover,
dreams will haunt and smother,
crying for your mother,
living in the gutter of your mind’s eye,
try’na clear the clutter of your mind’s dying
while your eye’s tight,
can’t see the light.

Someone’s fingers fumble for the trigger.
All they can taste in their mouth is bitter.
Hands stop short not to disfigure the combatant: horrified at the same.
This is a mirror.
They thought they could face it before they saw their friend blown to bits,
pants now filled with shit;
still the mitts won’t work.
Brain submits,
refuses to work.


Not fit for purpose,
not fit for service,
don’t need to preserve us,
should never have joined this circus;
still what’s worse is the combatant is still there.
Still that stare.
These two compared:
No one wants to kill;
no one will kill.
But your country is at your door.
And they’re telling you to go to war.

credits

from Working Class Artists, released October 9, 2020
Jonty
Anthony
Vinny
Mark

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Working Class Artists England, UK

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