Jules Verne – 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

CHAPTER XVII.-FOUR THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE PACIFIC

During the daytime of the 11th of December I was busy reading in the large drawing-room. Ned Land and Conseil watched the luminous water through the half-open panels. The Nautilus was immovable. While its reservoirs were filled, it kept at a depth of 1,000 yards, a region rarely visited in the ocean, and in which large fish were seldom seen.

I was then reading a charming book by Jean Mace, The Slaves of the Stomach, and I was learning some valuable lessons from it, when Conseil interrupted me.

“Will master come here a moment?” he said, in a curious voice.

“What is the matter, Conseil?”

“I want master to look.”

I rose, went, and leaned on my elbows before the panes and watched.

In a full electric light, an enormous black mass, quite immovable, was suspended in the midst of the waters. I watched it attentively, seeking to find out the nature of this gigantic cetacean. But a sudden thought crossed my mind. “A vessel!” I said, half aloud.

“Yes,” replied the Canadian, “a disabled ship that has sunk perpendicularly.”

Ned Land was right; we were close to a vessel of which the tattered shrouds still hung from their chains. The keel seemed to be in good order, and it had been wrecked at most some few hours. Three stumps of masts, broken off about two feet above the bridge, showed that the vessel had had to sacrifice its masts. But, lying on its side, it had filled, and it was heeling over to port. This skeleton of what it had once been was a sad spectacle as it lay lost under the waves, but sadder still was the sight of the bridge, where some corpses, bound with ropes, were still lying. I counted five–four men, one of whom was standing at the helm, and a woman standing by the poop, holding an infant in her arms. She was quite young. I could distinguish her features, which the water had not decomposed, by the brilliant light from the Nautilus. In one despairing effort, she had raised her infant above her head– poor little thing!–whose arms encircled its mother’s neck. The attitude of the four sailors was frightful, distorted as they were by their convulsive movements, whilst making a last effort to free themselves from the cords that bound them to the vessel. The steersman alone, calm, with a grave, clear face, his grey hair glued to his forehead, and his hand clutching the wheel of the helm, seemed even then to be guiding the three broken masts through the depths of the ocean.

What a scene! We were dumb; our hearts beat fast before this shipwreck, taken as it were from life and photographed in its last moments. And I saw already, coming towards it with hungry eyes, enormous sharks, attracted by the human flesh.

However, the Nautilus, turning, went round the submerged vessel, and in one instant I read on the stern–”The Florida, Sunderland.”

Freakangels 0069

No Saturday Open Mic tonight? I understand completely if everyone is busy with anonymous Belkin routers and took a week off.

Please forgive the long and schizoid nature of this post. I want to be good but you have my wheels spinning again.

Alright, open page 6 in photoshop.

From top of bounding box in the first panel to 1111 pixels, is 1066 pixels. We like 1111 for reasons I don’t feel like explaining. Just say it resembles four sticks like the Zeppelin song Four Sticks which I happen to think is a great song. And 1066 was a pretty interesting year yes?

The width of the panels appears to be 660 pixels. Again, another interesting number. If you know what a Golden Rectangle is you might already know that a box with a width of 660 and a length of 1066 is what they call golden, but whatever, I was bored and so wasted an evening doing simple math and constructed a Golden Rectangle from scratch. Da Vinci used geometry like this in his paintings so why not Mr. Duffield? Paul is cool like that, right?

From the bottom left corner, using the width 660 as the side of a square from which to begin drawing a golden rectangle (as in Wolfram’s instructions here), follow the steps until you’ve drawn a line between the upper right corner of the square and the midpoint of the square’s opposite side. You’ve drawn a line which perfectly threads the hook dangling in panel 3, which itself has a string dangling from it, which along with the drawn hypotenuse implies yet another right triangle, which is very humorous. The length of this line is calculated as the square root of a squared plus b squared right? a squared plus b squared in this case is 544500.

We in the time travel business like symbolic fours that turn into symbolic fives and 544500 has that nice near-palindromic feature inside it, followed by two zeds. If the Roman alphabet we use today were numbered in a sequence (with a = 1, b = 2, c = 3 … and so forth), 5445 would spell out EDDE, such as the name of the Crusade-era church in Lebanon, which is also pretty interesting, not to be flogging old Christian shit unnecessarily.

So anyway, find the square root of 544500 and you have the hypotenuse being about 738 pixels long. 738 pixels away from the midpoint according to Euclid’s instructions on making a Golden Rectangle, is the precise top of the panel 1, thus confirming page 6 here is a Golden Rectangle.

You are very tricky people.

Continue the little golden rectangle game until you’ve chopped up sequential boxes to draw the Golden Spiral. With the spiral superimposed on page 6, in one orientation anyway, the curve starts along Kait’s path through the doorway, and then after some adventures drills infinitely into the top corner of one of the gas cans in panel 1. Here are four versions of Page 6 with a Golden Spiral drawn onto it, in no particular order. This example here would be on the top right.

If oriented another way, the spiral comes in like sunlight through the window in panel 1, goes through Kait’s head and then through a cupboard into her abdomen in panel 2, then the buckle of one of the bags on her belt, then approximates the fish eye curve in panel 3 while leading through the door Kait has just come through (at the spot where the plaster is crumbling by the light switch). It continues though other cracks in the plaster and terminates very nearby the blue plastic bin in which I used to store my stuff at the apartment off SE 23rd Ave where I first read Transmetropolitan, here in Portland. Nearby the plastic bin at that apartment were all my trash bags full of clothing, which are also evident here.

Oriented a different way, the Golden Spiral leads through the door Kait entered in panel 3, then through the gas can, then through more cracked plaster, then the knob on the oven someone else noticed the other day. In this case the spiral bores infinitely into the wall almost exactly between Kait and the outer contour of the oven, with another humorous right triangle formed by the the boxes making up the spiral and yet another crack in the plaster. Plaster being made of calcium, this reminds me of broken bones, which, well…, you know, those suck.

Oriented a different way, the spiral begins approximately at the suspected location of the fish eye lens in panel 2, travels along the length of Kait’s arm in panel 1 and then the gas cans, curves through the cracks in the plaster on the left of panel 3, then one of the plastic bags on the ground, through where Kait’s foot gets cut off, then her right hand, then the shelf next to the oven and then through the burner on the oven. Then it goes back through the door Kait has just traversed, golden rectangles forming interesting triangles all over and of course the obvious pentagram right where it should be on most diagrams of the properties of phi, the Golden Ratio. It then goes through Kait’s magical head, eventually terminating at what looks like the focal point of the camera lens of doom, as measured by the fish eye curve of the leftmost wall. A circle drawn around that focal point using the curved wall as a radius includes the entire room in panel 3, and also the oven along with Kait’s lower half in panel 2. Other interesting circles drawn with cracked plaster bits as the center include the gas cans and the oven.

So yes, lots of gas cans and oven items of note.

Seeing my old apartment in here, and thinking about all my old houses, I realize that I wish I’d thought of all this before defending Luke in earlier threads, because I also used to have a housemate named Luke who was a total dick, who was violent, and who was accused of rape at least once, in a way that wasn’t a joke and not as subject to interpretation as a fictitious comic mystery. His greatest defender in my household was a short bald girl with initials approximating chi rho (or rho chi, to achieve Arkady, whatever), who had also overdosed when she was younger, and who otherwise is just as brilliant and charming as our Freakangel friend who enjoys the CHIKKENS so very much.

So I get this now. Sorry I’m late.

The “Arkady” I lived with was very upset with Christianity for oppressing all the teen lesbians, whereas I was curious about at least some “Christian studies” because of the math, and this was one of many reasons we didn’t get along back then, aside from my being utterly insane. She lives in Texas now and trains dogs for a living, which of course are Warren’s favorite, the enemy of humans. I think she was also trying to install malware on my system the last few times we spoke in AIM chat. Where I first noticed that my residence was being spied on a few years ago, which happens a lot, was in the place where I first had the blue bin near the bags of laundry. For various reasons I was inclined to think it was my Arkady doing this to me but she denied all involvement. If it wasn’t her doing the spying and the hacking and the pranking and so forth, it wouldn’t be the first time blame was purposely misdirected at a hapless internet user I used to know in real life.

I assumed the Luke character in Freakangels was based on something else, because of his pants problem and his monologue on floods and time back in the beginning of the series, so I totally blanked on my actual housemate named Luke. I assumed the Alice character connected to an ex-girlfriend who was briefly in England around the same time Freakangels was being put together, according to comics media I’ve read here and elsewhere, and that the Mark character was based on yet another (total cunt) housemate who is an associate of hers. Two Summers ago after leaving the compromised apartment, I spent a week up in Seattle with a friend who lived with me and Luke and “Arkady” fifteen years ago, and he was busy growing strawberries in his free time, so, check. Maybe? I’m wrong a lot these days so hopefully I’m not jumping to conclusions but boy do I like strawberries! Hell yeah!

The other Freakangels are a little unclear to me so far, though I was engaged once to a lady who didn’t like boring monogamy and would sometimes organize orgies like someone around here in the Freakangels comic, ahem, and to be honest I never should have left her alone with my computer back in January, the night that it suddenly snowed in Portland for no good reason at all. Otherwise, rain and floods and living several days in the future are what I do, so I’ve always been curious about what inspires this comic every week, even if I don’t say anything out loud because I’m scared of writing something stupid in a giant crowd again.

There have been pranks of this magnitude pulled off before (like the entirety of Catholicism for instance), but what is more interesting is that this comic turned out to be a time machine, either by mistake or by design, incorporating Warren’s readers into its architecture. This might be construed as unbelievable and/or at least a little dangerous. Information from my life is being broadcast through all you guys into all sorts of times and places, at least partially creating the history we live in now, in a way which is not a lie at all, seriously, instead it seems kind of amazing. If Wikipedia is to be believed, it might be how I wound up as St. David the Patron Saint of the Welsh, Warren’s favorite, back in the sixth century, about which you’ll just have to trust me because I don’t feel like explaining the whole thing right now. But Wikipedia can be falsified like anything else right? So maybe the article there is also part of a prank.

I won’t go into the shape on the cracked floor near the blue bin in the last panel, which is a customized tesseract pointing at the place where I used to both sleep and dream in that apartment. It’s not like I can copyright such a thing anyway, but it is a part of something I’ve been studying for the last two years or so.

My understanding of the prank as I first experienced it in 2007, where my internet and my real life interacted in ways which should not be possible, was to slowly drive me crazy with interconnected story phenomenon until everyone was done laughing at my devastated life. Perhaps this was some kind of payback for obtuse comments I’d left at other locations on the web not realizing just how obtuse they were. I’m not sure anyone caught on at first to the natural disasters and unusual violence that accompanied every step of this joke as comic book fighting dopplered out in every direction, in every dimension, but hopefully that should be obvious by now.

This is a very special time we live in, I hope you know that.

By the way Warren, I’m pretty sure it was Republicans who fucked up your computer with the novel on it. Popular activist figures have to be way careful during an election year, especially the author of Crooked Little Vein and so much else. Trying to catch them might be difficult though.

Do you guys know Roger Waters? That guy is cool.

*waves at Dr. Who*

p.s. My favorite part of the Wolfram diagram is how you can use it to spell the word “fap”.

Time isn’t holding us

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife

And you may ask yourself ‘well…how did I get here?’



Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the moneys gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.



And you may ask yourself

How do I work this?

And you may ask yourself

Where is that large automobile?

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful house!

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful wife!

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the moneys gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was…same as it ever was…same as it ever was…

Same as it ever was…same as it ever was…same as it ever was…

Same as it ever was…same as it ever was…



Water dissolving…and water removing

There is water at the bottom of the ocean

Carry the water at the bottom of the ocean

Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!



Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/in the silent water

Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.



Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the moneys gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.



And you may ask yourself

What is that beautiful house?

And you may ask yourself

Where does that highway go?

And you may ask yourself

Am I right? …am I wrong?

And you may tell yourself

My god!…what have I done?



Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/in the silent water

Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.



Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the moneys gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.



Same as it ever was…same as it ever was…same as it ever was…

Same as it ever was…same as it ever was…same as it ever was…

Same as it ever was…same as it ever was…

Hark! A Vagrant!

People who know me know that I enjoy the work of Kate Beaton.

Cibo Matto – “Clouds”

I’m moving fast like clouds in the sky
You can see my tears are dry
You’re staying there higher in the sky
7 layers of the air

We’ve never ever moved together yet so beautiful
We’ve never ever moved together yet so beautiful

I’m moving fast like birds in the sky
You can see my eyes turn bright
You are staying there further in the sky
7 layers of time

We’ve never ever moved together yet so beautiful
We’ve never ever moved together yet so beautiful

I’m proving past and breaking new ground
Slowly my eyes open wide
You’re staying there and playing new sounds
7 layers of light

We’ve never ever moved together yet so beautiful
We’ve never ever moved together yet so beautiful

Jethro Tull live on 10th Feb. 1977 at Golders Green Hippodrome

Skating Away On the Thin Ice of the New Day

Meanwhile back in the year one — when you belonged to no-one —
You didnt stand a chance son, if your pants were undone.
’cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society
One day youll wake up in the present day
A million generations removed from expectations
Of being who you really want to be.
Skating away
Skating away
Skating away on the thin ice of the new day.

So as you push off from the shore,
Won’t you turn your head once more and make your peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
Will live just one more day
To do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness, spinning in your emptiness:
You feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign
That the universal mind has written you into the passion play.

Skating away on the thin ice of the new day.

And as you cross the circle line, the ice-wall creaks behind
You’re a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly in the corner of your eye
Shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story’s
Too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybody’s on the stage, and it seems like
You’re the only person sitting in the audience?

Jack in the Green

Have you seen Jack-In-The-Green?
With his long tail hanging down.
He sits quietly under every tree
in the folds of his velvet gown.
He drinks from the empty acorn cup
the dew that dawn sweetly bestows.
And taps his cane upon the ground
signals the snowdrops it’s time to grow.

It’s no fun being Jack-In-The-Green
no place to dance, no time for song.
He wears the colours of the summer soldier
carries the green flag all the winter long.

Jack, do you never sleep
does the green still run deep in your heart?
Or will these changing times,
motorways, powerlines,
keep us apart?
Well, I don’t think so
I saw some grass growing through the pavements today.

The rowan, the oak and the holly tree
are the charges left for you to groom.
Each blade of grass whispers Jack-In-The-Green.
Oh Jack, please help me through my winter’s night.
And we are the berries on the holly tree.
Oh, the mistlethrush is coming.
Jack, put out the light.

Thick as a Brick Part 1

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.

Thick as a Brick Part 2

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.

Songs From the Wood

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.

Velvet Green

Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.
Isn’t it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
Walking on velvet green.

Won’t you have my company, yes, take it in your hands.
Go down on velvet green, with a country man.
Who’s a young girl’s fancy and an old maid’s dream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.

One dusky half-hour’s ride up to the north.
There lies your reputation and all that you’re worth.
Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream.
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green.

And the long grass blows in the evening cool.
And August’s rare delight may be April’s fool.
But think not of that, my love,
I’m tight against the seam.
And I’m growing up to meet you down on velvet green.
Now I may tell you that it’s love and not just lust.
And if we live the lie, let’s lie in trust.

On golden daffodils, to catch the silver stream
that washes out the wild oat seed on velvet green.
We’ll dream as lovers under the stars
of civilizations raging afar.
And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars.
As you walk home cold and alone upon velvet green.

Walking on velvet green. Scots pine growing.
Isn’t it rare to be taking the air, singing.
Walking on velvet green.
Walking on velvet green. Distant cows lowing.
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving.
Walking on velvet green.

Hunting Girl

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.

My lady, be discrete.
I must get to my feet and go back to the farm.
Whilst I appreciate you are no deviant,
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.

Aqualung

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

Sun streaking cold
an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Leg 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 on to 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.

Leg 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.

Dee dee dee dee.

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

Wind Up

When I was young and they packed me off to school
and taught me how not to play the game,
I didn’t mind if they groomed me for success,
or if they said that I was a fool.

So I left there in the morning
with their God tucked underneath my arm
their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question
and by way of firm reply,
He said – I’m not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.

So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares):
before I’m through I’d like to say my prayers
I don’t believe you:
you had the whole damn thing all wrong
He’s not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.

Well you can excommunicate me on my way to Sunday school
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines
how do you dare tell me that I’m my Father’s son
when that was just an accident of Birth.
I’d rather look around me – compose a better song
`cos that’s the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory you’re a poorer man than me,
as you lick the boots of death born out of fear.

I don’t believe you:
you had the whole damn thing all wrong
He’s not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.

Locomotive Breath

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 won’t stop going
no way to slow down.
He sees his children jumping off
at the stations – one by one.
His woman and his best friend
in bed and having fun.
He’s crawling down the corridor
on his hands and knees
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train 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
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train won’t stop going
no way to slow down.