Love Song for a Moderate

But we had to Get The Tories Out, right? Right?

How can they call you a fascist 

when you're such a moderate soul?

You never voted for Brexit,

you send your kids to a state school

(a good one, that you moved for, it's true,

but why make your kids pay for your                                                                   principles?

Besides, you still followed the rules.)

You campaigned for a new referendum,

but we can't ignore the Red Wall: 

some people's concerns are legitimate.

2019 was a real wake-up call.

We can't be beholden to activists,

have to sacrifice some for the good of the                                                                      whole.

It's not fair that they call you a fascist: 

you're simply a moderate soul,

and when the time comes you will grass on your neighbours;

and, when this is over, 

claim you never noticed

the smell from the camp down the road.

Big Iron (The Hooded Stranger Remix)

 

Everyone liked that 

To the town of Old Manhattan came a stranger one fine day

In blue jeans and a backpack and a hoody coloured grey

No-one noticed much about him as amid their midst he slipped 

Biding time until he could unsheathe the big iron on his hip (big iron on his hip) 

Now in this town there lived a fatcat by the name of Brian T 

Who made his money off the misery of folks like you and me

Denying people treatment to increase his bottom line

Had filled his belly up with sweetmeats he would sleep off every night (sleep off every night)

In Manhattan's concrete canyon night was falling on the town

And the Stranger waited patient as commuters milled around

He was plotted up and planted in the place he had to be 

For the Handsome Hooded Stranger was there after Brian T (after Brian T) 

In the boardroom Greedy Brian stretched and gave a lazy drawn-out yawn

Another day of talking shit in pointless meetings, he had done

Now it was time for socialising with his brothers in the grift

He thought of how he missed Jeff Epstein as he got into the lift (got into the lift)

With a smile upon his jowls Big Brian thought how he would play 

When all at once the Hooded Stranger changed the course of Brian's day

As three shells marked 'delay, deny, depose' were very swiftly whipped

From the barrel of the big iron, now no longer on his hip (no longer on his hip)

Greedy Brian lay there dyin' as the people gathered round

While the Handsome Hooded Stranger vanished back into the crowd

And the people stood there gathered swore an oath to keep it zipped,

To never snitch upon the Stranger with the big iron on his hip (big iron on his hip) 

Big Iron

Big Iron

No-one would snitch upon the Stranger with the Big Iron on his hip

(Big Iron on his hip)

    

                    *         *         *

(With apologies to Marty Robbins, and with thanks to the Handsome Hooded Stranger, you the readers, and everyone happy to honour the ancient bardic tradition of tossing a coin in the hat)

Art Happens at a Human Speed

 I'm still working on the next big essay for this blog, which, like the Tyson/Paul essay, I'll also be doing as a video for my YouTube channel. In the meantime, though, enjoy my thoughts on how AI will never be able to create art: