their stories and their songs, And the music of their native land … 
https://fbcdn-sphotos-h-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn2/v/t34.0-12/10357855_1447103778870138_1138488844_n.jpg?oh=2a79bb7365973961012180adcd3513b2&oe=53772A3B&gda=1400323220_afda46be36b4c2a7c30dd303202652eb
I wrote for luck, they sent me you
I sent for juice, you give me poison
I hold the line, you form the queue
Try anything hard,
Is there anything else you can do?
We wait and think and doubt and hate. How does it make you feel? The overwhelming feeling is rage. We hate ourself for being unable to be other than what we are. Unable to be better. We feel rage. The feelings must be followed. It doesn’t matter whether you’re an ideologue or a sensualist, you follow the stimuli thinking that they’re your signposts to the promised land. But they are nothing of the kind. What they are is rocks to navigate the past, each on your brush against, ripping you a little more open and they are always more on the horizon. But you can’t face up to the that, so you force yourself to believe the bullshit of those you instinctively know are liars and you repeat those lies to yourself and to others, hoping that by repeating them often and fervently enough you’ll attain the godlike status we accord those who tell the lies most frequently and most passionately. But you never do, and even if you could, you wouldn’t value it, you’d realise that nobody believes in heroes any more. We know that they only want to sell us something we don’t really want and keep from us what we really do need. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we’re getting in touch with our condition at last. It’s horrible how we always die alone, but no worse than living alone.
[QUOTE=“Mark Renton, post: 945359, member: 1796”]I wrote for luck, they sent me you
I sent for juice, you give me poison
I hold the line, you form the queue
Try anything hard,
Is there anything else you can do?[/QUOTE]
Lyrical genius.
John Cooper Clarke - The Pest
The pest pulled up, propped his pushbike at a pillar box, pulled his 'peen, paused at a post and pissed.
‘Piss in the proper place’ pronounced a perturbed pedestrian, and presently, this particular part of the planet was plunged into a panorama of public pressure and pleasure through pain.
The pandemonium prompted the police, who patrolled the precinct in panda cars, to pull up and peruse the problem, while pickpockets picked pockets in pairs.
‘Arrest the pest who so pointedly pissed in that public place’ pleaded the peeved people, practically palpitating.
The powerful police picked up the pest: pronounced him a poof, a pansy, a punk rocker, a pinko, a poodle poker. They picked him up, pummelled his pelvis, punctured his pipes, played ping-pong with his pubic parts, and packed him in a place of penal putrefaction.
The period in prison proved pitiless. the pendulous pressure of a painless personality purge prompted the pest to ponder upon progressive politics… and a workable prognosis.
He put pen to paper and privatively and persuasively propagated his personal political premise – pity: a police provocateur put poison pellets in the pest’s porridge. the police provocateur was promoted, and the pest was presented with the Pulitzer peace prize… posthumously