Lyrics #10 – Visitor – Greg MacPherson

‘It’s not where you’re at my friend it’s who you are there that really matters
I’m going back to Nova Scotia just as soon as I serve my time’

Check song out here.

Visitor
The city sometimes is a backhanded invitation
It’s all just sitting there waiting for a man knows where it’s at
But if you want in there or anywhere you gotta be ready to pay for it
And there’s nothing that a poor man knows much better than that

I came up from the east coast following a woman that I’d met back home
She was the kind of girl could motivate a man beyond himself
A long year living in a run down basement suite with nothing
I tried looking for work and then I tried looking for someone else.

The way you’re looking at me…
You never know who you’ll turn out to be until you get there

I did a couple years working nights at a warehouse job I hated
I did a couple more serving drinks to people with more money than sense
I ran up quite a bill down at the bank that I probably should have paid
In a city like this it’s a wonder that I even paid my rent

I fell in with the wrong kind of crowd… who knows, maybe I’d been out looking
It’s hard living without when the good life’s laughing right in your face
It sits there with its long legs crossed saying you should
But you know you shouldn’t
If you stand there long enough you’ll do anything for a taste

The way you’re looking at me…
You never know who you’ll turn out to be until you get there
All along some part of me might have been wrong but I never noticed

This one night I made a call to a woman
Got dressed up and went out drinking
Things had gotten out of hand by then and I was in a little over my head
Someone offered me some money and in retrospect I guess I wasn’t thinking
In a city like this it’s a wonder that I didn’t just end up dead

You heard this story all before and my own version’s not much better
An hour in the spot light, an evening in a road, a minute in a line
It’s not where you’re at my friend it’s who you are there that really matters
I’m going back to Nova Scotia just as soon as I serve my time

The way you’re looking at me…
You never know who you’ll turn out to be until you get there
All along some part of me must have been wrong but I never noticed

Lyrics #9 – Adventures in Zoochosis – Propagandhi

Check song out here.

Adventures in Zoochosis

I hold out for consensus. Give the masses the benefit of the doubt. Insist the democratic process will bear this population out. I think my only fear of death is that it may not be the end. That we may be eternal beings and must do all of this again. Oh please lord let no such thing be true. Though I suspect that if I slink back to my enclosure — safe and warm and adequately lit. Sufficiently plumbed and ventilated — well, let’s just say I would not shake a stick. And if pressed, I’ll admit: I’m ecstatic about the enrichment programs implemented to extend our captive lifespans. I’m excited to see what our keepers have planned! Perhaps a bigger cage? Longer chains? Some compelling novel reasons to remain? “Dad are we gonna die?” Yes son, both you and I…but maybe not today. Boys, I’ve bowed to the keepers whip for so damn long I think the sad truth is this enclosure is where your old man belongs. But you, your hearts are pure, so when operant conditioners come to break you in I’ll sink my squandered teeth. You grab your little brother’s hand run like the wind. And if I’m not there, don’t look back. Just go. I don’t give a fuck about the enrichment programs implemented to extend our captive lifespans. Motherfucker gonna get a load of what I got planned.

Lyrics #5 – Dear Coach’s Corner – Propagandhi

Check song and lyrics out here.

Dear Ron MacLean. Dear Coach’s Corner. I’m writing in order for someone to explain to my niece the distinction between these mandatory pre-game group rites of submission and the rallies at Nuremburg. Specifically the function the ritual serves in conjunction with what everybody knows is in the end a kid’s game. I’m just appealing to your sense of fair play when I say she’s puzzled by the incessant pressure for her to not defy the collective will, and yellow ribboned lapels, as the soldiers inexplicably rappel down from the arena rafters (which, if not so insane, would be grounds for screaming laughter). Dear Ron MacLean, I wouldn’t bother with these questions if I didn’t sense some spiritual connection. We may not be the same but it’s not like we’re from different planets: we both love this game so much we can hardly fucking stand it. Alberta-born and prairie-raised. Seems like there ain’t a sheet of ice north of Fargo I ain’t played. From Penhold to the Gatineau, every fond memory of childhood that I know is somehow connected to the culture of this game. I can’t just let it go. But I guess it comes down to what kind of world you want to live in, and if diversity is disagreement, and disagreement is treason, well don’t be surprised if we find ourselves reaping a strange and bitter fruit that sad old man beside you keeps feeding to young minds as virtue. It takes a village to raise a child but just a flag to raze the children until they’re nothing more than ballast for fulfilling a madman’s dream of a paradise where complexity is reduced to black and white. How do I protect her from this cult of death?