Bursting Out
Live - 22 settembre 1978 - Debaser id 19198

Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears,
Rehearse your loudest cry.
There's folk out there who would do you harm
So I'll sing you no lullaby.

There's a lock on the window, there's a chain on the door,
And a big dog in the hall.
But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night
To snatch you if you fall.

So come out fighting with your rattle in hand, thrust and parry. Light
A match to catch the devil's eye, bring a cross of fire to the fight.
And let no sleep bring false relief from the tension of the fray.
Come wake the dead with the scream of life, do battle with ghosts at play.
And gather your toys at the call-to-arms and swing your big bear down
Upon our necks when we come to set you sleeping safe and sound.
It's as well we tell no lie to chase the face that cries.
And little birds can't fly so keep an open eye.
It's as well we tell no lie, so I'll sing you no lullaby.

It's as well we tell no lie to chase the face that cries.
And little birds can't fly so keep an open eye.
It's as well we tell no lie, so I'll sing you no lullaby.

Keep your eyes open and prick up your ears,
Rehearse your loudest cry.
There's folk out there who would do you harm
So I'll sing you no lullaby.

There's a lock on the window, there's a chain on the door,
And a big dog in the hall.
But there's dragons and beasties out there in the night
To snatch you if you fall.

So come out fighting with your rattle in hand, thrust and parry. Light
A match to catch the devil's eye, bring a cross of fire to the fight.
And let no sleep bring false relief from the tension of the fray.
Come wake the dead with the scream of life, do battle with ghosts at play.
And gather your toys at the call-to-arms and swing your big bear down.
Upon our necks when we come to set you sleeping safe and sound.
It's as well we tell no lie to chase the face that cries.
And little birds can't fly so keep an open eye.
It's as well we tell no lie, so I'll sing you no lullaby.

My first and last time with you
And we had some fun.
Went walking through the trees, yeah!
And then I kissed you once.
Oh I want to see you soon
But I wonder how.
It was a new day yesterday
But it's an old day now.

Spent a long time looking
For a game to play.
My luck should be so bad now
To turn out this way.
Oh I had to leave today
Just when I thought I'd found you.
It was a new day yesterday
But it's an old day now.

Let me bring you songs from the wood:
to make you feel much better than you could know.
Dust you down from tip to toe.
Show you how the garden grows.
Hold you steady as you go.
Join the chorus if you can:
it'll make of you an honest man.
Let me bring you love from the field:
poppies red and roses filled with summer rain.
To heal the wound and still the pain
that threatens again and again
as you drag down every lover's lane.
Life's long celebration's here.
I'll toast you all in penny cheer.
Let me bring you all things refined:
galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale.
Greetings well met fellow, hail!
I am the wind to fill your sail.
I am the cross to take your nail:
A singer of these ageless times.
With kitchen prose and gutter rhymes.
Songs from the wood make you feel much better.

Thick As A Brick

Really don't mind if you sit this one out.

My words but a whisper -- your deafness a SHOUT.
I may make you feel but I can't make you think.
Your sperm's in the gutter -- your love's in the sink.
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in
the tidal destruction
the moral melee.
The elastic retreat rings the close of play
as the last wave uncovers the newfangled way.
But your new shoes are worn at the heels and
your suntan does rapidly peel and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.

And the love that I feel is so far away:
I'm a bad dream that I just had today -- and you
shake your head and
say it's a shame.

Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.

See there! A son is born -- and we pronounce him fit to fight.
There are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.
We'll
make a man of him
put him to trade
teach him
to play Monopoly and
to sing in the rain.

The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water --
as the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.
The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other --
as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.
The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling --
but the master of the house is far away.
The horses stamping -- their warm breath clouding
in the sharp and frosty morning of the day.
And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.

And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.
Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.

The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river
where the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:
the builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose
and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.
The young men of the household have
all gone into service and
are not to be expected for a year.
The innocent young master -- thoughts moving ever faster --
has formed the plan to change the man he seems.
And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.

And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.
Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.

What do you do when
the old man's gone -- do you want to be him? And
your real self sings the song.
Do you want to free him?
No one to help you get up steam --
and the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.

LATER.
I've come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.
My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.
So come on all you criminals!
I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old man --
twenty years too late.
Your bread and water's going cold.
Your hair is too short and neat.
I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.

You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone -- you meet the stares.
You're unaware that your doings aren't done.
And you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.
But how are we supposed to see where we should run?
I see you shuffle in the courtroom with
your rings upon your fingers and
your downy little sidies and
your silver-buckle shoes.
Playing at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol
who lets you bend the rules.

So!
Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't you rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super crooks
and show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament. Won't you?
Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.

You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.
The other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.
And so you finally ask yourself just how big you are --
and take your place in a wiser world of bigger motor cars.
And you wonder who to call on.

So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you though?
They're all resting down in Cornwall --
writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition
of the Boy Scout Manual.

LATER.
See there! A man born -- and we pronounce him fit for peace.
There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his disease.
We'll
take the child from him
put it to the test
teach it
to be a wise man
how to fool the rest.

QUOTE
We will be geared to the average rather than the exceptional
God is an overwhelming responsibility
we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing nylons
cats are on the upgrade
upgrade? Hipgrave. Oh, Mac.

LATER
In the clear white circles of morning wonder,
I take my place with the lord of the hills.
And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured (in neat little rows)
sporting canvas frills.
With their jock-straps pinching, they slouch to attention,
while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen.
Saying -- how's your granny and
good old Ernie: he coughed up a tenner on a premium bond win.

The legends (worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled
in the seagull's call.
And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's fall.
The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun,
and signal for the crack of dawn.
Light the sun.

Do you believe in the day? Do you?
Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun.
Soft Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the day?
The fading hero has returned to the night -- and fully pregnant with the day,
wise men endorse the poet's sight.
Do you believe in the day? Do you? Believe in the day!

Let me tell you the tales of your life of
your love and the cut of the knife
the tireless oppression
the wisdom instilled
the desire to kill or be killed.
Let me sing of the losers who lie in the street as the last bus goes by.
The pavements are empty: the gutters run red -- while the fool
toasts his god in the sky.

So come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
Let me help you pick up your dead as the sins of the father are fed
with
the blood of the fools and
the thoughts of the wise and
from the pan under your bed.
Let me make you a present of song as
the wise man breaks wind and is gone while
the fool with the hour-glass is cooking his goose and
the nursery rhyme winds along.

So! Come all ye young men who are building castles!
Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus.
Mark the precise nature of your fear.
See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon you
and the hour of judgement draweth near.
Would you be
the fool stood in his suit of armour or
the wiser man who rushes clear.
So! Come on ye childhood heroes!
Won't your rise up from the pages of your comic-books
your super-crooks and
show us all the way.
Well! Make your will and testament.
Won't you? Join your local government.
We'll have Superman for president
let Robin save the day.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday?
And where were all the sportsmen who always pulled you through?
They're all resting down in Cornwall -- writing up their memoirs
for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.

OF COURSE
So you ride yourselves over the fields and
you make all your animal deals and
your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.

One day I walked the road
And crossed a field to go
By where the hounds ran hard.
And on the master raced,
Behind the hunters chased
To where the path was barred.
One fine young lady's horse refused the fence to clear.
I unlocked the gate but she did wait until the pack had disappeared.

Crop handle carved in bone,
Sat high upon a throne
Of finest English leather.
The queen of all the pack,
This joker raised his hat
And talked about the weather.
All should be warned about this high born Hunting Girl.
She took this simple man's downfall in hand, I raised the flag that she unfurled.

Boot leather flashing and spurnecks the size of my thumb.
This highborn hunter had tastes as strange as they come.

Unbridled passion, I took the bit in my teeth.
Her standing over, me on my knees underneath, underneath.

My lady, be discrete,
I must get to my feet
And go back to the farm.
Whilst I appreciate
You are no deviate,
I might come to some harm.
I'm not inclined to acts refined, if that's how it goes.
Oh, high born Hunting Girl, I'm just a normal low born so and so.

The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end --- drank his ale too light.
Death's head belt buckle --- yesterday's dreams ---
the transport caf' prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
in his post-war-babe gloom.

Now he's too old to Rock'n'Roll but he's too young to die.

He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.
Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
all of his mates are doing time:
married with three kids up by the ring road
sold their souls straight down the line.
And some of them own little sports cars
and meet at the tennis club do's.
For drinks on a Sunday --- work on Monday.
They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.

Now they're too old to Rock'n'Roll and they're too young to die.

So the old Rocker gets out his bike
to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner
just like it used to be.
And as he flies --- tears in his eyes ---
his wind-whipped words echo the final take
and he hits the trunk road doing around 120
with no room left to brake.

And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll but he was too young to die.
No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll if you're too young to die.

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
Between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
Oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
Static-humming panel-beaters,
Freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)
He titillated men-of-action
Belly warming, hands still rubbing
On the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
One-line jokers, TV documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
Family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
And he looked at all the friends he'd made.

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes observed the spaces
In between the old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred,
Oblique suggestions and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
Static-humming panel-beaters,

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
Saw his face in everyone.

He titillated men-of-action
Belly warming, hands still rubbing
On the parts they never mention.
(salaried and collar-scrubbing.)

He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating,
One-line jokers, TV documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers.)
Sunday paper backgammon players
Family-scarred and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage
And he looked at all the friends he'd made.

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down on the rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass -
And saw his face in everyone.

The minstrel in the gallery
Looked down upon the smiling faces.
He met the gazes...
The minstrel in the gallery

Who would be a poor man, a beggarman, a thief --
If he had a rich man in his hand.
And who would steal the candy
From a laughing baby's mouth
If he could take it from the money man.
Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract
But she always plays the game.
Dines in Hampstead village
On expense accounted gruel,
And the jack-knife barber drops her off at school.

Laughing in the playground -- gets no kicks from little boys:
Would rather make it with a letching grey.
Or maybe her attention is drawn by Aqualung,
Who watches through the railings as they play.
Cross-eyed Mary finds it hard to get along.
She's a poor man's rich girl
And she'll do it for a song.
She's a rich man stealer
But her favour's good and strong:
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate --
Helps the poor man get along.

Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Hey, Aqualung!
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey Aqualung!
Feeling like a dead duck
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Whoa, Aqualung!

Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Neck hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog-end
he goes down to the bog
and warms his feet.

Feeling alone
the army's up the road
salvation à la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend
don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it's only me.

Do you still remember
December's foggy freeze
when the ice that
clings onto your beard was
screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.

Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Neck hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog-end
he goes down to the bog
and warms his feet.

Feeling alone
the army's up the road
salvation à la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend
don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it's only me.

[Guitar Solo]

Aqualung my friend
don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it's only me.

Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Hey Aqualung!
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey, Aqualung!
Feeling like a dead duck
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Hey, Aqualung!
Whoa, Aqualung!

In the Shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath,
Runs the all time loser,
Headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping
Steam breaking on his brow
Old Charlie stole the handle
And the train it won't stop going
No way to slow down.

He sees his children jumping off
At stations one by one.
His woman and his best friend
In bed and having fun.
Crawling down the corridor
On his hands and knees
Old Charlie stole the handle
And the train it won't stop going
No way to slow down.

He hears the silence howling
Catches angels as they fall.
And the all time winner
Has got him by the balls.
He picks up Gideons Bible
Open at page one
I think God, he stole the handle
And the train it won't stop going
No way to slow down.