I will run wild in the woods,
twigs in my hair,
and I will shout: Merlin, Merlin!
(what’ll the neighbours say, what’ll the neighbours say)
Why didn’t you prophesy this?
And Myrddin Emrys, Merlin himself, stirs in his oak tree and says
This?
This madness?
This time when the whole country goes mad and roots in the woods,
like you do,
covered in dirt and bruises, leaves and twigs in their hair,
talking to a piglet,
shouting, screaming to a piglet,
that the money is burning, the world is burning, we are all burning
(burning, burning)
and power has no connection
and the kings have no ears
and are not kind
and the small have no power but
(fuck it, fuck you, fuck it all, fuck right off)
kick away the props
because they hate it all and want it to burn
and who can blame them, who can blame them little piglet?
Who can blame the powerless who kick back for once,
when they have no prospects and nothing to love
not even a pig to love,
but plenty of liars to tell them who to blame,
to pick on,
to fan the little flame that hates what is different
never thinking it would flare so high and burn us all down,
or that it can happen here,
taking up a torch and running screaming through the woods
in the traditional way,
little piglet,
with their hair wild and not a thought for civilization
or their neighbours
(Lord, who is my neighbour?)
or the future
and doesn’t it feel good to paint yourself blue and scream through the woods
not taking thought
to be a mob again
when the kings won’t listen and keep kicking down hard
and the money is burning and they told you
(You saw it on Neighbours)
there’s no hope and no change and nowhere for you
and told you who to blame
for the roads being straight and the eggs being square
and the world wasn’t for you,
no neighbours, nosy neighbours, never no more neighbours,
signs and portents saying Keep Out
things aren’t what they used to be
and you know whose fault that is?
You used to be able to freewheel downhill
to the New World Symphony
in the Old World
with a loaf of brown bread,
no more!
Maybe they’re homesick for rationing,
maybe they’ll be glad when it comes back,
(fuck that, fuck you, fuck fuck fuck)
you can’t go back
for a blue cover
nonsense means nonsense
and all the kings choosing power without thought
shallow short term petty power now
without a plan, without sense, without a thought
(burning, burning, fuck, fuck, fuck)
and it’s a long way
without one thought of Connaught or Leinster,
Munster or Ulster,
no neighbours, never a neighbour, not one,
no deal, no honour, no future, no choices,
and
and
and
I’d never have prophesied it,
no,
think about it,
who could have prophesied all this
when even after the fact
it sounds incredible?
