Kieran Leonard
Kieran Leonard hosts and performs his weekly residency at the Hideaway Bar in Archway, London. His first album, "The
Scapegoats", will be available from October 4th, 2009 from iTunes, Amazon or www.Kieranleonardmusic.com
Scapegoats", will be available from October 4th, 2009 from iTunes, Amazon or www.Kieranleonardmusic.com
Harold Pinter is Dead
Give me a definition of sweet redemption;
I've got haircuts, t-shirts, disaffected egos creeping through the discos in the corners of the scene
Greasing up the shillings, living in the seams;
Empty rooms, empty chairs, empty eyes with empty stares
Is our culture bigger than nature?
The girl on the steps says she needs you to taste her,
And you've got tattoos, and Top Man shoes, twenty Marlboro Lights, and tragically nothing else to lose.
(chorus)
This could be the death of us all
This could be the rise and the fall
Henry Thoreau and Walt Whitman, couldn't put my soul back together again
The newspaper said "Harold Pinter is Dead"
I've got the homecoming blues again.
The crowd starts screaming "you're the one", your girlfriend complains, "Are we having fun?"
All your rivals become your disciples
Taking your words for their own,
Mistaking your stool for a throne;
You give them a saviour: They won't let you live
You give them a saviour: They won't let you live
(chorus)
The mob helps you to carry the cross
The little girls weep in a smear of lip gloss
Paying the father to forgive the sins
The television feed, the anchorman grins
You give them a saviour: They won't let you live
You give them a saviour: they won't let you live
(chorus)
So ban the bombs and ban the dogs,
Ban the lovers, ban the thugs,
Ban the reasons, ban the choices,
Ban the weather, ban the voices,
Ban the booze, ban the drugs,
Ban the birds and ban the bees,
Ban the colours and ban the trees,
Ban the boys down on their knees
We all go on like before.
Give me a definition of sweet redemption;
I've got haircuts, t-shirts, disaffected egos creeping through the discos in the corners of the scene
Greasing up the shillings, living in the seams;
Empty rooms, empty chairs, empty eyes with empty stares
Is our culture bigger than nature?
The girl on the steps says she needs you to taste her,
And you've got tattoos, and Top Man shoes, twenty Marlboro Lights, and tragically nothing else to lose.
(chorus)
This could be the death of us all
This could be the rise and the fall
Henry Thoreau and Walt Whitman, couldn't put my soul back together again
The newspaper said "Harold Pinter is Dead"
I've got the homecoming blues again.
The crowd starts screaming "you're the one", your girlfriend complains, "Are we having fun?"
All your rivals become your disciples
Taking your words for their own,
Mistaking your stool for a throne;
You give them a saviour: They won't let you live
You give them a saviour: They won't let you live
(chorus)
The mob helps you to carry the cross
The little girls weep in a smear of lip gloss
Paying the father to forgive the sins
The television feed, the anchorman grins
You give them a saviour: They won't let you live
You give them a saviour: they won't let you live
(chorus)
So ban the bombs and ban the dogs,
Ban the lovers, ban the thugs,
Ban the reasons, ban the choices,
Ban the weather, ban the voices,
Ban the booze, ban the drugs,
Ban the birds and ban the bees,
Ban the colours and ban the trees,
Ban the boys down on their knees
We all go on like before.
Jerusalem
Fifty thousand iron men, on the way home from Jerusalem,
Romantics and taxpayers gather your strength,
Your kingdom come, your will be done.
And the country that you will defeat, will be right beneath your feet,
And the police will take your children and your women no longer weep.
(chorus)
Who'll save us from ourselves?
Who's going to save me from myself?
Celebrity soldiers with executive toys,
Screaming street poets without any voice,
Fatherless children, consumers and whores,
Wristband charities without any cause.
And you'll look for your God and you'll find the hangman laughing,
And you'll look for your love and you'll find a new fragrance called passion,
And you'll try to find reason just to obey your God and king fashion,
And you'll try to grow crops but the land will yield us nothing.
(Chorus)
Innocence and dissidence gather your strength,
As you toil in the palace of decadence,
And reap what you sow and condemn from the fence,
There'll be nothing for sale, nothing to rent,
Where nothing's the currency, where nothing is left,
The divide will grow wide, money won't buy you bread.
There's a man of the people saying keep hope alive,
And a child in the street saying bring out your dead.
(Chorus)
Martyrs and moguls toil for a handful of dust,
And my TV won't stop selling me stuff.
We've all bought life styles but it isn't enough,
When a full tank of petrol means eight pints of blood,
The shipyards are empty, you can't trade in rust.
And we've sold all our souls to Facebook's national trust.
When no one is looking they'll ban all the books,
And trade in our passports for ropes and meat-hooks.
(Chorus)
This isn't a prophesy, this isn't how things were meant to be,
This is England at two o'clock just yesterday.
But we still buy the papers, and condone our rapists,
And lie in the grave they've gladly made for us.
But there's fifty thousand iron men on the way home from Jerusalem,
Romantics and taxpayers gather your strength,
Cause your kingdom come, your will be done.
Fifty thousand iron men, on the way home from Jerusalem,
Romantics and taxpayers gather your strength,
Your kingdom come, your will be done.
And the country that you will defeat, will be right beneath your feet,
And the police will take your children and your women no longer weep.
(chorus)
Who'll save us from ourselves?
Who's going to save me from myself?
Celebrity soldiers with executive toys,
Screaming street poets without any voice,
Fatherless children, consumers and whores,
Wristband charities without any cause.
And you'll look for your God and you'll find the hangman laughing,
And you'll look for your love and you'll find a new fragrance called passion,
And you'll try to find reason just to obey your God and king fashion,
And you'll try to grow crops but the land will yield us nothing.
(Chorus)
Innocence and dissidence gather your strength,
As you toil in the palace of decadence,
And reap what you sow and condemn from the fence,
There'll be nothing for sale, nothing to rent,
Where nothing's the currency, where nothing is left,
The divide will grow wide, money won't buy you bread.
There's a man of the people saying keep hope alive,
And a child in the street saying bring out your dead.
(Chorus)
Martyrs and moguls toil for a handful of dust,
And my TV won't stop selling me stuff.
We've all bought life styles but it isn't enough,
When a full tank of petrol means eight pints of blood,
The shipyards are empty, you can't trade in rust.
And we've sold all our souls to Facebook's national trust.
When no one is looking they'll ban all the books,
And trade in our passports for ropes and meat-hooks.
(Chorus)
This isn't a prophesy, this isn't how things were meant to be,
This is England at two o'clock just yesterday.
But we still buy the papers, and condone our rapists,
And lie in the grave they've gladly made for us.
But there's fifty thousand iron men on the way home from Jerusalem,
Romantics and taxpayers gather your strength,
Cause your kingdom come, your will be done.
