Songs of Idiocy & Expedience

Whoever You Vote For
Lincolnshire Poachers
Your House: Full of Twigs
Potato
House of Cows
Winds of Change

Whoever You Vote For

stop
look
listen to the empty preacher
he'll only tell you what you want to hear
not just a bug, he's always been a feature
let's all pretend that we're supposed to care

no more time until the future happens
no more room to find a common cause
when the only things we sell are weapons
now's the time to start a few more wars

you voted for change so you'd better believe that it's coming
you voted for progress but no one knows where to begin
you voted for freedom but freedom means more than just running
whoever you vote for the government still gets in

run back home and grab that hopeless pamphlet
hide your mattress underneath the stairs
build a barricade of tins for comfort
aren't you glad you voted for that hair

[war. what is it good for?
economic growth]

all that fear is what the doctor ordered
all that hope is why you're spread so thin
all those reasons that you took for granted
still you're standing out here looking in

you'd better believe that you've run out of time for compassion
you're kinda relieved that they've run out of room at the inn
you won't be deceived that the truth is so far out of fashion
whoever you vote for the government still gets in

you voted for change so you'd better believe that it's coming
you voted for progress but no one knows where to begin
you voted for freedom but freedom means more than just running
whoever you vote for the government still gets in

back to top


Lincolnshire Poachers

living twenty miles from nowhere, where the ocean meets the sky
and the road runs down from Sleaford to the sea
if you're looking for adventure there's so much that you can try
there's earth and air and water and they're free

we were trying to kill the evening but it didn't want to die
we were trying to find a way to get back home
we were trying to find a reason just to keep from asking why
we found a set of car keys and a phone

we're all falling down but there's nowhere to fall
nowhere to fall from a world that's so round
all falling down but there's nowhere to fall
nowhere to fall from the ground

you can blame it on the weather, or the old familiar trouble
you can blame it on the loot that wasn't there
but it's hard to find a cash till under fifteen feet of rubble
and it's hard to drive a tractor in despair

so we came back from the Co-op with some bruises and a cough
and the bitter taste of failure in our smiles
though Lincolnshire's so flat, there must be somewhere to fall off
from Jerusalem to Kate's is forty miles

we're all falling down but there's nowhere to fall
nowhere to fall from a world that's so round
all falling down but there's nowhere to fall
nowhere to fall from the ground

living twenty miles from Sleaford where the ocean meets the sky
and the road runs down from nowhere to the sea

back to top


Your House: Full of Twigs

what was it you wanted to say
about your fallen idol and his slippers of clay
and how the new world order is the price that you pay
and how you hit that rusty nail on the head

what was it you left in the rain
was it a fat deposit on the buffalo train
or just a pastry omelette that you can't quite explain
although you know it'll all make sense when you're dead

the harmolodics and the phonics and the ride back home
the supermarkets and the car keys in a china bowl
you misremembered the dismemberment of Graham's phone
you're overzealous cos you're jealous of the things you own

your future, eaten by goats
so many dickheads, so many votes
your garden, overrun with pigs
your house: full of twigs
everything you make, somebody wrecks it
every single egg got put in one brexit
not just the rigs of the times, these are the times of the rigs
and this is your house
and it's full of twigs

what was it you wanted to ask
about your sweet rebellion that got lost in the past
and how the ghost of the future has been hijacked at last
and now you're living in your uncle Joe's shed

what was it you wanted to be
before this grotesque revisionist history
where the future is the past and the past will set you free
although the truth is that you'd rather be dead

the harmolodics and the phonics and the ride back home
the supermarkets and the car keys in a china bowl
the transformation of a nation where the truth has flown
no more compassion, there's a ration but you're on your own

compulsory clown school, is that what you want
I think you'll find that t shirt is on back to front
is that a cat in a hat or just a pig in a wig
or is it your house, full of twigs

bail out the bankers, throw out the proles
close down the borders cos they're full of holes
the least of these evils is still pretty big
and so is your house, and it's full of twigs

are you sure that's your car, cos I think it's on fire
you'd have to say that chimp has found his heart's desire
they're England's defenders, they come to all your gigs
and look, it's your house, and it's full of twigs

well hey, is that your bicycle? so where are its wheels
it turns out that your bank account is full of eels
I don't believe that's Santa Claus, dancing a jig
on top of your house
which is full of twigs

like a boiled potato that somebody sat on
that's gone seventeen rounds with a young Ricky Hatton
the dystopian nightmares of Adolphus Spriggs
take place in your house, which is full of twigs

back to top

Potato

so here I sit and eat my potato
there's nothing I would rather do
than sit here in the sun, away from everyone
eating my potato with you

I wish that I could be a potato
my troubles would be far and few
roasted mashed or boiled, or fried in olive oil
or sauteed in a lovely stew

I'd be safe and warm beneath my cosy bed of earth
careful with that spade in case you chop my friends in half
give me ears and eyeballs if you're looking for a laugh
potato heads are wiser, for they tread upon the path

but now I haven't got a potato
there's nothing I left for me to do
but sit here in the sun, away from everyone
and dream of my potato and you
and dream of my potato and you

back to top


house of cows

I dreamed I woke in a room in the house of cows
dreamed I woke in a room in the house of cows
chasing after the moon of leaves and waking in the blue
I dreamed I woke in a room in the house of cows

they grow like bulbs on a page in the book of sand
grow like bulbs on a page in the book of sand
ain't got no Voynich or hidden screed gonna read me like a mushroom
they grow like bulbs on a page in the book of sand

it was down by the crossyards seventy tons
fore the wind got caught in anchors
down by the crossyards seventy tons before
seed him run with his heads all flung to the wind like proper Jesus
down by the crossyards walking before the lord

I dreamed I woke in a room in the house of cows
chasing after the moon of leaves and waking in the blue
crushed in the arms of sleep like she was trying to forget you
dreamed I woke in a room in the house of cows

back to top


winds of change

so much water has flowed
since we put the fires out in Mannenberg
so many forks in the road
so many ways to turn the turtle

it could have been so sweet
the great warm stew of all humanity
we could have been replete
we hung our future in the market

now that you're wrapped in the flag
not even the winds can cross the borders
who do you blame for the cold
who will you blame for taking orders

so who will you blame?

now that we've broken the mould
now that the truth is out of season
what have we bought with our souls?
what have we traded for our reason?

so here we are once again
like pigs
voting for the bacon farm

back to top