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Screaming Blue Murder

by The Crows Of Albion

Screaming Blue Murder I’m screaming Blue Murder at the state of the nation and how we blame our ills on Muslims and immigration - talking about people as though they’re an infestation. I’m screaming Blue Murder. I’m screaming Blue Murder at the Banker’s greed and the people on the street who we can’t seem to feed - the way that we trample on sexuality and creed. I’m screaming Blue Murder. I’m screaming Blue Murder at the whole disheartening mess of the education system, transport and the NHS - and how we’re going to get out of it is anybody’s guess. I’m screaming Blue Murder. I’m screaming Blue Murder at the neo-Fascist’s rise, about how we’re indoctrinated by Tory owned newspaper lies and the way we look away when an industry dies. I’m screaming Blue Murder. I’m screaming Blue Murder that the rich are getting more while zero hour contracts are hammering the poor and the way we still find money to support another war I’m screaming Blue Murder. I’m screaming Blue Murder at intolerance and hate, about the way you can’t criticise a Persecution State without being dragged into an anti semitic debate. I’m screaming Blue Murder. I’m screaming Blue Murder for all of the bluster and fuss caused by unsupported facts on the side of a bus - how just one third of the country somehow speak for all of us. I’m screaming Blue Murder. I’m screaming Blue Murder at what this government’s done to the weak and vulnerable, to the poor man and his son - and as they stand accused with their guilt ridden smoking gun I’m screaming Blue Murder My heart is on the left and my blood is red. Austerity doesn’t work, it has to be said. Our ethics and our values are morally dead. I’m screaming Blue Murder
Sunset Over Lupset (August 1968) Lupset sunsets smelled of bonfires, undercut with new mown grass, wild mint by the kitchen window, treasures in the strawberry patch. Father sat with pint of shandy, The mower cooling in the shade, the rake stowed by the garden shed, the kids with sparkling lemonade. Summer sun dips on the estate dragging shadows from the coal hole. Bird song muffled in humid air that blankets sweat and soothes the soul. Sounds of mother in the kitchen putting salad onto our plates - ham and cheese and egg and lettuce, simple food that invigorates. The summer heat is at its height, the doors and windows open wide to let the air move through the house where sleeping bodies will be fried. A memory of summers past before the world stole all our dreams, where simple things dealt us pleasure - cold Council pop and Lumb’s ice creams. Families sitting in back yards, talking together, having fun, perfect end to an August week when debts were paid and work was done. Sunset over Lupset August nineteen sixty eight Sunset over Lupset Things never felt so great
The Bayonet In The Shed He put it there in forty nine, in a woodworm riddled drawer, wrapped it in a greasy rag. A remnant from the war. On top of it he laid his medals, nothing more was said until the day my father took the bayonet from the shed. We had pestered many times and he had said ‘perhaps’ when we asked him if he’d killed any Krauts or any Japs. His eyes fixed on something far away, as though searching for the dead, but we found out what we wanted when he took the bayonet from the shed. He was a sergeant major in the hell hole that was Burma, where the Japanese snipers would target you on a murmur. He was proud of the campaign and the boys that he had led but he never ever talked about the bayonet in the shed. He didn’t hate all foreigners and he said the greatest worker that he had ever met in the war was ‘good old Johnny Gurkha’. That being brave wasn’t about killing, he was happy when they fled, then he went down the garden and took the bayonet from the shed. He was gone a short while and when we saw him coming back he was no longer marching proudly along a heroes track. We witnessed the aged warrior return with heavy tread, shoulders slumped in surrender with the bayonet from the shed. He moved the cloth reverently and laid the medals by its side and for the first time in my life we watched as my father cried. We sat with him and looked at it and thought of bodies that had bled after being introduced to the bayonet in the shed.
USMF When the KKK and the Kremlin Are sharing their vodka and rye When redneck white supremecists are making Lady Liberty cry When The land of the free is walled in So pesky Mexicans can’t get by That’s the day the rest of us Watches America die. When the Whitehouse houses a bigot A misogynist ‘locker room’ fly When a multi-billionaire Stands for momma’s apple pie When a name shines on a tower That reaches up to the sky That’s the day the rest of us Watches America die. When a straw thatched Umpa-Lumpa Pedals the conspiracy lie When a tax dodging privileged hypocrite Tells workers he’s their kinda guy When a bully is sitting as president And parents tell their children why That’s the day the rest of us Watches America die Lady Liberty Weeps In a Minnesota precinct On a Minnesota street The day starts like any other For the Baton Rouge elite In the land of the brave In the land of the free A cop with a pistol Shoots liberty A man reaches for a wallet With a target on his back Red white and blue All the patrolman sees is black Where the gun is law The sheriff of the west Has immunity to kill Wearing a star on his chest And this is the country Who sets itself above The rest of the world And preaches peace and love But it can’t control the forces It creates to protect And it can’t control the hatred It chooses to elect Where every stand off Is resolved by the gun And red neck lobbyists Believe the lies they have spun Now in Dallas Texas There are cop killers on the street The day ends like any other The cycle is complete Safety Off The FBI and the CIA got ‘em Good ‘ol boys in the KKK got ‘em Even Doris Day got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe Kids in their daddies cars got ‘em Rednecks in Dallas bars got ‘em Sheriffs with tin stars got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe The white and black and brown got’ em Old folks in mid-west town’s got ‘em Even the Whitehouse clown got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe Clint Eastwood and John Wayne got ‘em The holy and insane got ‘em I’ve heard that Citizen Kane got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe Shopkeepers in their stores got ‘em Vets returning from their wars got ‘em Pimps and two bit whores got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe The Washington Post and Fox got ‘em Randy high school jocks got ‘em Snipers in tower blocks got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe Heroes on TV got ‘em The brave and the free got ‘em Babies on their mamas knees got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe The Waltons and the Brady’s got ‘em The good guys and their ladies got ‘em Tupac and Slim Shady’s got ‘em But it don’t make ‘em safe Every Independence day got ‘em Every bullet that goes astray got ‘em The whole of the USA got ‘em And they’re never gonna be safe BODY COUNT 16/10/91 23 Dead – Luby’s Cafeteria – Killeen Texas 4/12/12 27 Dead – Sandy Hook Elementary – Newtown, Connecticut 16/4/07 32 Dead – Virginia Tech – Blacksburg, Virginia 12/6/16 49 Dead – Pulse Nightclub – Orlando, Florida 1/10/17 58 Dead – Mandalay Bay Resort, Las Vegas AND COUNTING…..
Windsor Street No bunting flutters in the breeze, no boys and girls, dressed up so neat, with not a scratch upon their knees. There are no flags on Windsor Street. There are no parties in the yard, the sandwiches will hold no meat. They will send no greetings card ‘from the residents of Windsor Street’. There are no beds of scented flowers, there are no open arms to greet the crumpled masses who spend their hours huddled in corners on Windsor Street. There are no canapés or quince or any kind of special treat - just calorific saturated fats since the jobs were lost on Windsor Street. So when the bride comes down the aisle with platitudes thrown under her feet the folk will try to raise a smile at the injustice wrought on Windsor Street. The cheering crowds will sing the happy couples praise, choreographed to match the beat of marching bands on sunny days that never pierce the shadows on Windsor Street. When the happy couple go to be bed and lay beneath their privileged sheet not a single thought enters their heads of the detritus on Windsor Street. Little England has it’s sideshow with celebrities they’ll never meet - meanwhile resentment will flourish and grow in the humble abodes on Windsor Street.
We Are The Dead we are the dead the unrequited love the words we never said the dreams we never realised we are the dead. we are the dead sat in front of the TV spending too long in bed wasting our lives away we are the dead we are the dead arguing among ourselves never leading being led to places we don’t want to go we are the dead we are the dead stifling our dreams In the labyrinths of our head letting chances pass us by we are the dead we are the dead dousing our passions so the flames are never fed then wishing days away we are the dead we are the dead forming our opinions through the papers we have read Instead of making news ourselves we are the dead we are the dead following the trails that other travellers tread no footsteps in the virgin snow we are the dead we are the dead we could be hanging round old haunts raising merry hell instead we procrastinate in graves we are the dead
There Are No Angels Here Scraping around the vipers nest, flaming swords and thrusting spear, black spiders scuttle to the feast but there are no angels here. The dragon crawls into their veins, hallucinogenic ecstasy or fear. The demon bares his fangs to bite and still there are no angels here. The first-born rounded up and caged, harvesting the mothers tear, the innocents are slaughtered. Yes, there are no angels here. No Seraphim, no Nephilim, no Archangel seen far or near - God’s army keep their powder dry. There are no avenging angels here. The dead will rise in Babylon, false prophets will snipe and sneer, the doubters branded heretics. There are no longer angels here. Tangled up in their own strings the puppets and the puppeteer. God is dead and Satan lives because there are no angels here. The fool sits in the house of white, Apocalyptic portents appear. Despite claiming the hand of God there were never any angels here.
Under August Skies We sat around the table Mam but none of us got fed, for the Corn Law has been biting and we don’t have any bread. The mill wheels have stopped turning, so we haven’t any jobs and we’re under-represented by the parliamentary nobs. So we gathered in the field Mam, with our banners and our flags, and the soldiers sat in lines with their brightly coloured nags. We were organised but unarmed and adamant we would not yield as we marched in peaceful protest arm in arm to St Peter’s Field. There were tens of thousands there Mam under baking August heat - and when Mr Hunt got up to speak we all jumped up to our feet and a huge roar went around the crowd as everybody cheered - but that was just the signal that the local magistrate feared. He called up the Hussars Mam and sent them in so we’d disperse and the air was filled with shrieks Mam and I don’t know what was worse - the slashing sabres on our backs, or the blood that soaked the ground, or the groans of all the wounded, or the chaos all around. There were soldiers in the field Mam and they all had swords and guns and they hacked their way through daughters and they hacked their way through sons, they hacked their way through husbands and they hacked their way through wives and they didn’t care a jot for the loss of poor folk’s lives. Sorry I didn’t come home Mam but I’m lying next to John, trampled by the horses, but now the horses have all gone. There are fifteen other mothers who will grieve the same as you over this bloody mess in Manchester. Pray for the dead of Peterloo.
Rosetta Of The Endless Night She went away twelve years ago and sent me missives now and then, although her words were data flow not written by a lovers pen. She passed beyond the world of men, forever from my earthly sight. Rosetta of the endless night The numbers came, row upon row, from places far beyond my ken - binary kisses from my beau who touched me softly once again. The cosmic chirping called out when my little bird would soft alight. Rosetta of the endless night Your energy was getting low, percentage wise way under ten, and you were starting to get slow - no longer giving me your gen. I grieve my wing-clipped dying wren - unable to sustain her flight. Rosetta of the endless night.
Bag O' Bones 03:21
Bag O’ Bones Please let me introduce myself - my name is Billy Jones. You might know me better as that useless bag o’ bones that gets under your feet when you’re staring at your phones, planning all your creature comforts on extortionate pay day loans. Bag O’ Bones, Bag O’ Bones Lying in the street without a home. One bitter night from dying here Where all my hopes and dreams were thrown. Well I was once like you my friend, I haven’t always been alone huddled up in corners where the autumn leaves have blown, I once dreamed the dreams that you dream, I once owned the things you own, but now I’m cold and hungry where the desperate seeds are sown. Well I was married very young to a lovely girl named Joan we lived a life of luxury - if only we had known that just around the corner I would soon be on my own - the bailiffs came to kick us out of the matrimonial home. You pass me with your coffee cups and grimace when I groan, you cannot stand to fight the war that rages in this homeless zone. I’ve lived for months inside this sleeping bag I feel like I’ve been sewn into a grave – without a name. So exits Billy Jones…
On The Slag Heap Quenching the eternal flame, the furnaces won’t burn again, the northern dragons will lay still - the Government has had its fill. At its heart a molten core that will implode and beat no more. The mill will close, the light will die and in the dark the ghosts will cry. The workers will go home to bed not knowing if their family’s fed or if they will become a number disappearing whilst they slumber. Another industry breathes its last, what once was present becomes past, the mines, the docks and now the steel like butterflies upon a wheel. When the grass has covered all, like graves with bodies in the soil, some day we will look back and say these tired beasts had had their day. But that will be only half a tale - economics made them fail, priced them to a lingering death - squeezed them of their failing breath Yet in the end nobody cared how these aging titans fared they didn’t hear their sad swan song - but they will miss them when they’re gone. ‘Another dog has had its day’, the fawning politicians say - and like a dog they put it down destroying one more northern town.
Catechism 03:07
Catechism I will not be defined by ancient Gods, or the archaic teachings in their books. I will tread warily around their words and avoid the hidden traps and snaring hooks. I will not stand behind a coloured flag and spout my blunt imperialistic views or drape it on a coffin when I die or burn it on the early evening news. I will not make a choice that’s based on skin or the way another human being speaks, the way another human being struggles to find the human touch a human seeks. I will not blame a desperate refugee for fleeing from a rocket spat war zone and running to the safety of the west and trying to find identity and home. I will not be defined by lines on maps or those, hastily drawn, across the sand, for anyone can make a mark on paper or claim a settlement as their homeland. I will not be defined on where I live or the destination of my birth. I am not a citizen of land but, rather, a child of planet earth. You will not know me by my flesh and blood or what is in my soul or in my mind. I will not be identified by thoughts for that is not the measure of mankind. You will only know me for my words - written, said and also what I do and let me tell you something man of hate there’s many more of us than there’s of you.
Jerusalem 03:57
Jerusalem I woke up this morning, and none of the news was good Death machines were rumblin' 'cross the ground where Jesus stood And the man on my TV told me that it had always been that way And there was nothing anyone could do or say And I almost listened to him Yeah, I almost lost my mind And I regained my senses again Looked into my heart to find That I believe that one fine day all the children of Abraham Will lay down their swords forever in Jerusalem Well maybe I'm only dreamin' and maybe I'm just a fool But I don't remember learnin' how to hate in Sunday school Somewhere along the way I strayed and I never looked back again But I still find some comfort now and then Then the storm comes rumblin' in And I can't lay me down And the drums are drummin' again And I can't stand the sound But I believe there'll come a day when the lion and the lamb Will lie down in peace together in Jerusalem And there'll be no barricades then There'll be no wire or walls And we can wash all this blood from our hands And all this hatred from our souls And I believe that on that day all the children of Abraham Will lay down their swords forever in Jerusalem
Perhaps 02:40
Perhaps… Perhaps it‘ll be over when I dare to open eyes blinded by the centuries of imperialistic lies. When the bodies have been buried underneath their rubble rooms and the children all lie sleeping In their bleak nursery tombs. We’re raising a firestorm across the middle east. We’re throwing money at it – We’re strengthening the beast. We’re killing whole families. You can see where we have been, where the cities have been levelled by the rabid war machine. Perhaps I will be happy with my name on a rocket that makes its way to Syria in some war monger’s pocket. How many deadly missiles does it take to kill ideas in an enemy that deals in terror, hate and fear? Perhaps I’ll side with generals who justify their cause by the number of deaths obliterated by their wars. Where targets are acquired and planes are in the air and they don’t know what to do next and they don’t really care. Perhaps I’ll ignore the people who elect to parliament, someone they can trust to vote with this government. I’ll stab my Judas knife into the back of men of peace. The wolf in the flock, draped in a bloody fleece. Perhaps it will be none of this and all will see some sense that bombing foreign countries is the worst form of defence - the terrorist will not be home, he’ll be some where else plotting atrocities on foreign soil while Syrian’s are rotting.
Fairy Cakes 02:29
Fairy Cakes They believed in a mythical being, who supposedly loved his creation. Omnipotent and all seeing - His will needing no explanation. They followed his lore from a book by disciples raising the stakes - saying one thing they just shouldn’t cook were those sinful and bad fairy cakes. “Good will to all men” they proclaimed (but the women don’t get a mention), the white bearded god was acclaimed for his homo-erectus invention. Famine, starvation and war were delivered for all of our sakes but don’t ask a bakery store to decorate bad fairy cakes. So they prayed for divine intervention over such an abomination (peace and love didn’t get a mention they beat out their biblical frustration). They sprinkled their mixture with bile and threw in the nuts and the flakes but no way on God’s green earth were they going to bake bad fairy cakes. The priests were getting quite frantic (momentarily forgetting the joys of their extra-curricular antics with unwary, young choirboys). But when the devil is hungry, you do whatever it takes to keep him away from the bakery and those blasphemous, bad fairy cakes. The god squad were all up in arms at the thought of all of those “queers” indulging in teacakes and barms - it resurrected disturbing fears that at the last supper it’s written there were no hens, only drakes, and who knew if they were smitten by a batch of those bad fairy cakes.
The Devil Don’t Own Me He may have saluted the corrupted cross In Hitler’s Germany, or whispered to Judas Iscariot, hanging from a tree, he could have pulled the trigger finger back in nineteen sixty three, he may own the soul of rock and roll but the Devil don’t own me. He may pollute the air we breath or the raging, deep blue, sea. He may breath on polar ice caps on his subtle killing spree. He may steal food from starving children or the hope from you and me, he may arm the fights of acolytes but the Devil don’t own me. He may own the greedy bankers and the false economy, the fascist newspaper owners in the lands of liberty, he may own the cops and robbers, he may strive to set them free from the laws they place upon us - but the Devil don’t own me He was at the witches coven, looking for his fee, when the British Government compacted with the DUP. He locked their morals in blood and threw away the key. The devil owns the country but the devil don’t own me. He may own the halls of government and the sly, dark powers that be, the state run institutions, he may own the state TV, he may control what we hear, he may control what we see, the Devil may be media savvy but the devil don’t own me. He owned the Milk Snatcher and the Grey Man forking peas, the Jolly Sailor Boy and the Bullingdon Club bullies. He was in the wrong line at Orgreave urging on the young PC’s. Yes the Devil sides with devils but the Devil don’t own me


released September 30, 2018

ALL WORDS (except Track 13) Ian Whiteley (Track 13 Steve Earle)
ALL MUSIC (except Track 13) Martin Heaton &/or John Kettle (Track 13 Steve Earle)
ALL VOCALS: Ian Whiteley
ALL INSTRUMENTS Martin Heaton &/or John Kettle
Recorded at MUSIC PROJECTS, WIGAN (July 2017 - September 2018)
DESIGN & ARTWORK by Ian Whiteley
GROUP PHOTOS by Joanna Sedgwick


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