Don’t Worry and Fight

And then it happened. Like the tip of an arrow, it pierced your soul, like a black moth, a poisoned bolt from a crossbow. Life’s a mutt, growling and whining, it’ll be a fight for your soul. Vultures against the carcass, The Godfather against The Family, a knife-to-knife fight, don’t worry. It’ll be a fight, it’ll be a fight, it’ll be a fight, but don’t worry! And then it happened. Like when all your fuel burns out, killing them isn’t enough, but perhaps it would do. Life’s a mutt, growling and whining, it’ll be a fight for your very skin. Fire against iron, velvet against chains, a knife-to-knife fight, don’t worry. Like an arrow to the soul, like a brand on the skin, it’ll be a knife-edge battle, it’ll be a close call. Vultures against the carcass, the Godfather against the Family, Joe against the majority, don’t worry.

I Burnt that Guitar Because of You

I burnt that guitar because of you, because you played that rubbish on it. And there was nothing left to do but purify it with fire, you had sullied it and spat on it. I burnt that guitar because of you, it burned and suffered for all of us. And it turned into a fiery sword that punishes, like a god of my vengeance, it rose from the ashes. I burnt that guitar because of you. And I saved just two red-hot strings from the fire. Only he who can play the last two strings, the two rusty strings, is the chosen one. And holy. I burnt that guitar for your sake, And I saved two strings from the fire. And I’ll lay them across each other in the shape of a cross and together we’ll be closer to the light. I burnt that guitar for your sake, because you played that rubbish on it. And there was nothing left but to purify it with fire, just pray that I don’t come across you. I burnt that guitar because of you, it took all the sins of the world upon itself. And with a metal chord that’s been through the fire, it brings eternal salvation for you.

The Cross and the Stones

Are you looking for trouble? You’ve come to the right place, we’ll take care of it for you, so you don’t have to. One last shot, I’ll give you a sign. The Cross and the Stones. A wounded animal holed up in a burrow, can still strike deep enough to draw blood. It’s hanging in the air, I’ll give you a sign. The Cross and the Stones. A cat must cry out nine times, but for you, just once – the very first time – is enough. We are Pompeii, Vesuvius will wait, you can still strike deep enough to draw blood. I’ll give you a sign. The Cross and the Stones. The one in a hundred, the Way of the Cross, we’ll take it on for you, so you don’t have to, if you want to kill me, you’ll have to load the gun first. I’ll give you a sign. They’re all dead, Dave, which one of you’s got it? And where’s some gratitude? And where’s humility? On the threshold of salvation, I’ll give you a sign. The cross and the stones. You’d like to suffer, but there’s no one to suffer for, in the hour of our betrayal, on the threshold of salvation. Why have you forsaken me? I’ll give you a sign. The cross and the stones.

Money

Money, my dear , is the true faith: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Money’s with us and evil’s gone, another ball skips merrily through my gate. You can’t buy happiness, fair enough, but when you’ve got money, yes!, it’s similar, it’s the same thing. Money’s sacred, when you’ve got enough cash, everything’s on top form, everything’s golden. They say money stinks… pfft! – like a pig, sure, mate, let it keep stinking away nicely in my cash box. The banker sings a divine song, money’s the fuel for my car, which is parched. An eternal thirst. Money’s a high, a black mamba that has the whole world buzzing. Money, a gift from heaven, if you don’t want it, money wants you. No cash, you’re nothing, my safe’s full of it, but I want more… I want more… loads more…

Playing with Fire

Go on, make your little waves, my level’s tsunamis, every tough bloke’s got his sacred mission, every badass likes to play with fire. Go on then, dance your waltz, I dance like a madman, like the Virgin Mary bitten by a tarantula, I dance to the rhythm of epilepsy. So what? Who’s who? We want to know who’s who! Go ahead and build your ark, I’ll build the Titanic, then I’ll send it to the bottom in a flash right after it, every daredevil likes to play with fire. Every idiot deserves his fame, every liturgy its flame, every holy thing has its Satan, the worst is yet to come. So what? Who’s who? We want to know who’s who! Make some waves. Make some waves. Make some waves. You’re living out your dreams, I’m living out my nightmares, Véna’ll tell you I’ve got my sacred mission from above, Let the police cameras film whatever they like. Just go ahead and make waves, my level’s a tsunami, every sharp bloke’s got his sacred mission, every badass likes to play with fire.

The XXL Problem

Happiness? What is happiness? When you can shake your fist at the clouds and reminisce about the good old days, about the cool blokes you had a laugh with, from Hitler to Stalin. Of the golden fifties and the trials, of all that fun and banter. Life was still good back then, before they took it away from us, before it all went wrong. Back then the world was still all right, but today it’s enough to make you sick. But the world was never all right, the world was never all right. The world will always be different from what you wanted, the world will always be different from what you wanted, that’s the XXL problem. XXL. Be careful and keep to yourself, what you’d like, what you’d wish for, because then the whole universe will conspire, the universe will make sure you screw it up. That you’ll mess it up. Like Chernobyl. So it’ll go boom. Bang! Like Fukushima. And Nagasaki and Hiroshima too. And anyway, things were better back then, sort of nice. Back then the world was still all right, whereas today it’s enough to make you sick. But the world was never all right, the world was never all right. The world was never all right, it’ll always be different from what you’d like When you shake your fist at the clouds, that’s what happiness looks like.

Irony

The dogs are hungry, you’ve got to feed them, the pack wants to eat, tear things apart and hunt. And when you let them loose into the night, raging, don’t be afraid, go to sleep. This is my body, lying naked in the mud, my mates are dead, or at rock bottom. Life will give you everything you want. It’s irony, you see. Tell me who you pray to, where you’re going, and I’ll tell you what you stand for, who you are. The apocalypse has already happened – what more do you want? What’s stronger than the truth? A lie! The lame walk, the blind see, you mustn’t fear the world; it must fear you. Hey, folks! Hey, folks! I’ve got a tank full of this shit, so hop in. A hundred parts per thousand of rage in your blood, you’ve filled up to the brim. With that much evil, you’ll reach your destination on a fast, comfortable journey. This is my city, lying naked in the mud, my mates are dead, or at rock bottom. Life will give you everything you want. It’s irony, you see. The dogs are hungry, you’ve got to feed them, the pack wants to eat, tear things apart and run wild. And once you let them loose into the night, raging, there’s no helping you. This is my body, the chalice of my blood, from which a venomous viper drinks. I can still make life a living hell for others, that’s the irony.

Like the Jacobins

It was supposed to be fine, but it went pear-shaped, it all went wrong, as if by mistake, as if it just happened all by itself. And nobody ever means any harm; people aren’t bad, just like the Jacobins, who always want heaven on earth. Answer questions with a full sentence, a whole vendetta, before they crucify you. People just don’t know what they’re doing, they aren’t evil, that’s just a given, it’s just sort of a given. Just like the Jacobins, before it all went wrong, just like the Jacobins, everyone always means well. Just like Nero when he set Rome alight, I don’t believe, even as I burn, that it could burn so quickly. So we’ll go now, and let the flames follow us, it’s all gone wrong; it was meant to be a golden age, heaven on earth. Just as the good-hearted Marx and the Hussites and others sought it, and Che Guevara and Jim Jones… and the Jacobins too. People aren’t evil; they’re just looking for their place, just as you’re about to take to your heels – you’re Monte Cristo.

Sugar and a Whip-Bitch

The old world’s coming to an end, the angels have fled, everyone’s gone and now the place is buzzing, the Sugar and Bitch freestyle party. Bitch as in a whore, the one you groan beneath, sharp and cruel, the sugar’s run out, there’s none left, only the kind you snort remains. Freestyle, freestyle, sugar-free freestyle, the sugar’s gone, only the whip remains. Freestyle, freestyle, sugar-free freestyle, It hurts, scream, no sugar, just a bitch. The old world’s ending, who’s precious to you, who’s cheap? Who’s deleted you from their friends, who’s cursed you, who couldn’t care less about you. Not everything, Vergilius, will go smoothly from here, as you’d wish, who gave you everything just to toy with you, and then took it all away? The old world is ending, the new one doesn’t want you; what was, is gone, forget about sugar, it’s all gone; there’s only a sugar-free bitch. A bitch like a whore in the footsteps of Christ, a bloody ride, trust no one, least of all yourself; hasta la vista, hasta la vista.

Dictate

Write this down: take two miles of fear, then add a tonne of gunpowder. I’ve got the recipe for a cracking party, babe, my baby won’t be sitting in the corner. Set the pace, strike a match and then we’ll pop over to the other side. Don’t worry, we’ll sort out a few essentials over there and we’ll be back in a jiffy. You bet, we’ll be back. I’ve got the recipe for a cracking party, babe, go for it hard, call the shots, call the shots, babe, hit the eagle in flight, go for it in flight. My baby won’t be sitting in the corner, go for it hard – take me down in flight with a burst from a machine gun, in flight from a machine gun. I’ve got the recipe for a cracking party, darling, set the pace, make it worth it. Make a note: bring a time bomb, an atomic one, to a TV show. So that the clown can win the crowd’s favour, ha ha, he’ll put a bullet through his head. No money, no love, no love song, nowhere to go and no one to be with, And if you’ve got to go up in flames, at least leave behind some thick smoke. You bet, thick smoke. Dictate, dictate, ruthlessly, dictate, babe, weak stories, I can’t be bothered with them – there are thousands of them all around. Dictate, dictate, ruthlessly, dictate, baby, dictate, dictate, together we’ll now cross every boundary.

Sunspots

There are spots on the Sun, that must be because it wants to celebrate life with love, but has no one to share it with. It burns down from the sky into you, it has its own plans for you, corrupt and impure, but you can live with that. It might find you, for instance, in the cold darkness of a tomb, at the very end of the world, in the crater of a volcano. It burns down from the sky into you, it has its own designs on you, corrupt and impure, but one can live with that. Between light and darkness, you and me… it’ll find you in the cold darkness of a tomb, in the crater of a volcano. Even if you were lost somewhere in the gloom of the bush, in a sunken wreck at the bottom of the sea, in the labyrinth of your soul. It burns down from the heavens into you, it has its own designs on you, corrupt and impure, but you can live with that.

In the Eye of the Hurricane

As evening falls, evil voices call out to us, the wind is favourable, but not for you. In the eye of the hurricane we’ll be closer, by the barrel of gunpowder we’ll doze off with a torch. Where, poor thing, where will you lay your head? As murderous bass notes race through the night.