Sunday 29 July 2018

The Kids They Are In Cages

A few weeks ago, in disbelief at the latest dark chapter in the rise of American Fascism, and in a spare 20 minutes at work, I put together an updated version of a Dylan classic

A lot of people seemed to like it. The award winning David Hughes even recorded a version of it. Got asked to post a full length version of the lyrics here. So here it is.



The Kids They Are in Cages

Come gather round people
Wherever you sit
And admit that the whole world
Has all turned to shit
And accept it that you
Played your own part in this.
If your President
Constantly rages
Then you better start praying
That he’ll soon have to quit
For the kids they are in cages.
 
Come racists and rapists
Your man’s in his lair.
Your fear of dark faces
Was what put him there.
And don’t you pretend
That you didn’t care,
That your concerns were
just for jobs and wages.
A fascist sits
In the President’s chair
And the kids
they are in cages.
 
Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
The American Dream
Is as wide as it’s tall
Don’t drug tiny children
Cos you cant build a wall
Your Bibles are missing
Some pages.
The land of the free
Will be lost to us all
When the kids they are in cages.
 
Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
The earth’s darkest hour
Is now close at hand
The administration’s a family band.
Tyranny, it comes on in stages.
They’ll come for you next
If you don’t take a stand
When the kids they are in cages
 
The lies are now facts
The news is now fake
A move for world peace
Is now a mistake
The values that bind us
Are now his to break.
Dictators are suddenly feted.
And you need to act quick
Before it’s too late
And your
kids they are in cages….

Monday 23 July 2018

Monday


If I was to get up right now, tell my colleagues I was going for a long lunch, leave my desk, walk to Cardiff Central, buy a ridiculously expensive train ticket to London, grab a table seat and then wait for my personal space to be invaded by a bunch of Brexit retirees on their way to a Monday night showing of something ungodly in the West End, and have to listen to their fucking pre-paid funeral mouths screeching on about how they didn’t even know Italians played golf and how good Lidl-own gin is for cocktails, and all the while watching Tory England speed past me like an ironic montage of a country abandoning the bucolic idyll for tower blocks and cancer, and because despite being nearly 50 still feel pathetically unable to ask if I could just squeeze out for a piss and so I just hold on to it till I nearly pass out in a Paddington cubicle, if I was to then make my way to Westminster and fortuitously bump into Jacob Rees-Mogg, would it be ok if I did a massive Mick Channon-style windmill and punch the nanny-fed cunt into the Thames?