PINK FLOYD THE FINAL CUT THE POST WAR DREAM Tell me true, tell me why was Jesus crucified?

Master Index Current Directory Index Go to SkepticTank Go to Human Rights activist Keith Henson Go to Scientology cult

Skeptic Tank!

PINK FLOYD THE FINAL CUT THE POST WAR DREAM Tell me true, tell me why was Jesus crucified? Is it for this that daddy died? Was it for you? was it me? Did I watch too much TV? Is that a hint of accusation in your eyes? If it wasn't for the nips Being so good at building ships The yards would still be open on the clyde. And it can't be much fun for them Beneath the rising sun with all their kids committing suicide. What have we done? Maggie, what have we done? What have we done to England? Should we shout? Should we scream? "What happened to the post war dream?" Oh, Maggie, Maggie, what have we done? YOUR POSSIBLE PASTS They flutter behind you, your possible pasts; Some brighteyed and crazy, some frightened and lost; A warning to anyone still in command Of their possible future to take care. In derelict sidings the poppies entwine With cattle trucks lying in wait for the next time. Do you remember me? how we used to be? Do you think we should be closer? She stood in the doorway, the ghost of a smile Haunting her face like a cheap hotel sign. Her cold eyes imploring the men in their macs For the gold in their bags or the knives in their backs. Stepping up boldly one put out his hand. He said, "I was just a child then, now I'm only a man." Do you remember me? how we used to be? Do you think we should be closer? By the cold and religious we were taken in hand, Shown how to feel good and told to feel bad. Tongue tied and terrified we learned how to pray And strung out behind us the banners and flags Of our possible past lies in tatters and rags. Do you remember me? how we used to be? Do you think we should be closer? ONE OF THE FEW When you're one of the few to land on your feet What do you do to make ends meet? Teach. Make them mad, make them sad, make them add two and two. Make them me, make them you, make them do what you want them to. Make them laugh, make them cry, make them lie down and die. THE HERO'S RETURN Jesus, Jesus, what's it all about, Trying to clot these little ingrates into shape? When I was their age all the lights went out; There was no time to whine and mope about. And even now part of me flies over Dreaden at angels one five, Though they'll never fathom it, behind my Sarcasm, desperate memories lie. Sweetheart, sweetheart, are you fast asleep? Good. 'Cos that's the only time that I can really talk to you, And there is something that I've locked away, A memory that is too painful To withstand the light of day. When we came back from the war, the banners and Flags hung on everyone's door. We danced and we sang in the street, and The church bells rang, But burning in my heart, My memory smoulders on Of the gunner's dying words on the intercom. THE GUNNER'S DREAM Floating down through the clouds, Memories come rushing up to meet me now In the space between the heavens, And in the corner of some foreign field, I had a dream, I had a dream. Goodbye, Max. Goodbye, Ma. After the service when you're walking slowly to the car, And the silver in her hair shines in the cold November air, You hear the tolling bell, And youch the silk in your lapel, And as the tear drops rise to meet the comfort of the band, You take her frail hand, And hold onto the dream. A place to stay, Enough to eat, Somwhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street, Where you can speak out loud About your doubts and fears, And what's more, no one ever disappears, You never hear their standard issue kicking in your door, You can relax on both sides of the tracks, And maniacs don't blow hold in bandsmen by remote control, And everyone has recourse to the law, And no one kills the children anymore... And no one kills the children anymore. Night after night, Going 'round and 'round my brain, His dream is driving me insane, In the corner of some foreign field. The gunner sleeps tonight. What's done is done. We cannot just write off his final scene. Take heed of his dream. Take heed. PARANOID EYES Button your lip, don't let the sheild sip. Take a fresh grip on your bullet proof mask, And if they try to break your disguise with their questions, You can hide, hide, hide Behind paranoid eyes. You put on your brave face and slip over the road for a jar, Fixing your grin as you casually lean on the bar, Laughing too loud at the rest of the world, With the boys in the crows, You hide, hide, hide Behind paranoid eyes. You believed in their stories of fame, fortune, and glory. Now you're lost in a haze of alcohol, soft middle age. The pie in the sky turned out to be miles too high, And you hide, hide, hide Behind paranoid eyes. GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY DESERT Brezhnev took Afganistan Begin took Beirut, Galtieri took the Union Jack, And Maggie, over lunch one day, Took a cruiser with all hands, Apparently to make him give it back. THE FLETCHER MEMORIAL HOME Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere, And build them a home, a little place of their own: The Fletcher Memorial Home for incurable tyrants and kings. And they can appear to themselves every day On closed circuit TV To make sure they're still real. It's the only connection they feel. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Reagan and Haig, Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher and Paisley, Mr. Brezhnev and party, The ghost of McCarthy, The memories of Nixon, And now, adding colour, a group of anonymous Latin American meat packing glitterati." Did they expect us to treat them with any respect? They can polish their medals and sharpen their Smiles, and amuse themselves playing games for a while. Boom, boom; bang, bang; Lie down, you're dead. Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye, With their favourite toys, They'll be good girls and boys, In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial Wasters of life and limb. Is everyone in? Are you having a nice time? Now the final solution can be applied. SOUTHAMPTON DOCK They disembarked in '45, And no one spoke, and no one smiled. There were too many spaces in the line. Gathered at the cenotaph, All agreed with the hand on heart, To sheeth the sacrificial knives. But now She stands upon Southampton Dock With her handkerchief, And her summer frock clings To her wet body in the rain. In quiet desperation, knuckles Whipe upon the slippery reins, She bravely waves the boys goodbye again. And still the dark stain spreads between His shoulder blades: A mute reminder of the poppy fields and graves, And when the fight was over, We spent what they had made. But in the bottom of our hearts, We felt the Final Cut. THE FINAL CUT Through the fish-eyed lens of tear stained eyes, I can barely define the shape of this moment in time, And far from flying high in clear, blue skies, I'm spiralling down to the hole in the ground where I hide. If you negotiate the minefield in the drive, And beat the dogs and cheat the cold electronic eyes, And if you make it past the shotgun in the hall, Dial the combination, open the priesthole, And if I'm in I'll tell you what's behind the wall. There's a kid who had a big hallucination: Making love to girls in magazines. He wonders if you're sleeping with your new-found faith. Could anybody love him? Or is it just a crazy dream? And if I show you my dark side, Will you still hold me tonight? And if I open my heart to you, And show you my weak side, What would you do? Would you sell your story to ROLLING STONE? Would you take the children away And leave me alone, And smile in reassurance As you whisper down the phone? Would you send me packing? Or would you take me home? Thought I oughta bare my naked feelings. Thought I oughta tear the curtain down. I held the blade in trembling hands, Prepared to make it, but just then the phone rang. I never had the nerve to make the Final Cut. NOT NOW JOHN Fuck all that! We've got to get on with these; Got to compete with the wily Japanese. There's too many home fires burning, And not enough trees. So fuck all that, We've got to get on with these. Can't stop Lose job Mind gone Silicon What bomb? Get away! Pay day Make hay Break down Need fix Big six Clickity-click Hold on Oh, no! Brrrrrrrrrring bingo! Make 'em laugh make 'em cry Make 'em dance in the aisles Make 'em pay Make 'em stay Make 'em feel okay. Not nah, John, We've got to get on with the film show. Hollywood waits at the end of the rainbow. Who cares what it's about As long as the kids go? Not now, John, Got to get on with the show. Hang on, John. I think there's something good on. I used to read books but It could be the news, Or some other abuse, Or it could be reusable shows. Fuck all that, we've got to get on with these; Got to compete with the wily Japanese. No need to worry about the Vietnamese; Got to bring the Russian bear to his knees. Well, maybe not the Russian bear; Maybe the Sweedes. We showed Argentina; Now let's go and show these. Make us feel tough, And wouldn't Maggie be please? Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah! S'cusi dove il bar. Se para collo pou eine toe bar. S'il vous plait ou est le bar. Ol' where's the fucking bar, John? TWO SUNS IN THE SUNSET In my rear view mirror, the sun is going down, Sinking behind the bridges in the road, And I think of all the good things That we have left undone, And I suffer premonitions; Confirm suspicions Of the holocaust to come. The wire that hold the cork, That keeps the anger in, Gives way, And suddenly it's day again. The sun is in the east Even though the day is done. Two suns in the sunset. Hmmmmmmmmmm. Could be the human race is run. Like the moment when the brakes lock, And you slide towards the big truck. You stretch the frozen moments with your fear; And you'll never hear their voices; And you'll never see their faces. You have no recourse to the law anymore. And as the windshield melts, My tears evaporate, Leaving only charcoal to defend. Finally, I understand. The feelings of the few; Ashes and diamonds, Foe and friend, We're all equal in the end. For Eric Fletcher Waters 1913-1944 [Typed in by Damian Ritter, a.k.a. "Captain Ameba"] [THE FINAL CUT lyrics by Roger Waters (c) 1983 Pink Floyd Music Publisher.] Downloaded from Slightly Intoxicated BBS WWIV 4.11 - Messages - G-Files - Files - Externals [503]223-8155 After 8 It's not what you know, It's when you know it X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X Another file downloaded from: The NIRVANAnet(tm) Seven & the Temple of the Screaming Electron Taipan Enigma 510/935-5845 Burn This Flag Zardoz 408/363-9766 realitycheck Poindexter Fortran 510/527-1662 Lies Unlimited Mick Freen 801/278-2699 The New Dork Sublime Biffnix 415/864-DORK The Shrine Rif Raf 206/794-6674 Planet Mirth Simon Jester 510/786-6560 "Raw Data for Raw Nerves" X-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-X


E-Mail Fredric L. Rice / The Skeptic Tank