1. In the beginning Man created God; and in the image of Man created he him.
2. And Man gave unto God a multitude of names, that he might be Lord over all the
earth when it was suited to Man.
3. And on the seven millionth day Man rested and did lean
heavily on his God and saw that it was good.
4. And Man formed Aqualung of the dust of the ground, and a host of others likened unto his kind.
5. And these lesser men did cast into the void. And some were burned; and some were
put apart from their kind.
6. And Man became the God that he had created and with his miracles did rule over all the earth.
7. But as all these things did come to pass, the Spirit that did cause Man to create his God
lived on within all Men: even within Aqualung.
8. And man saw it not.
9. But for Christ's sake he'd better start looking.
Aqualung
Sitting on a park bench -
eyeing little girls with bad
intent.
Snot running down his nose -
greasy fingers smearing shabby
clothes.
Drying in the cold sun -
watching as the frilly panties
run.
Feeling like a dead duck -
spitting out pieces of his broken
luck.
Sun streaking cold -
on an old man wandering lonely.
Taking
time
the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a
dog-end -
He goes down to the bog
and warms his feet.
Feeling alone - the army's up the road
salvation a la mode, and a cup of
tea.
Aqualung my friend - don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you
see, it's only me.
Do you still remember December's foggy freeze -
when
the ice that clings on to your beard is screaming agony.
And you snatch
your rattling last breaths with deep-sea-diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom
like madness in the spring.
Cross-Eyed Mary
Who would be a poor man, a beggarman, a thief -
if he had a rich man in his hand.
And
who would steal the candy from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man.
Cross-eyed Mary goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract but she always plays the game.
She dines in Hampstead village on
expense accounted gruel,
and the jack-knife barber drops her off at
school.
Laughing in the playground - gets no kicks from little boys:
would
rather make it with a letching grey.
Or maybe her attention is drawn by
Aqualung
who watches through the railings as they play.
Cross-eyed Mary
finds it hard to get along.
She's a poor man's rich girl and she'll do it for a
song.
She's the rich man stealer but her favour's good and strong:
she's the Robin Hood of Highgate - helps the poor man get along.
Cheap Day Return
On Preston platform do your soft shoe shuffle dance.
Brush away the cigarette ash that's falling down your pants
And then you sadly wonder does the nurse treat your old man the way she
should.
She made you tea, asked for your autograph -
what a
laugh.
Mother Goose
As I did walk by Hampstead Fair
I
came upon Mother Goose - So I turned her loose -
she was screaming.
And
a foreign student said to me - was it really true there are
elephants and lions
too in Piccadilly Circus?
Walked down by the bathing pond to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing into
hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew I was a
schoolboy.
And a bearded lady said to me - if you start your raving, and
your misbehaving -
you'll be sorry.
Then the chicken-fancier came to play -
with his long red beard (and his sister's weird:
She drives a
lorry).
Laughed down by the putting green - I popped 'em in their holes.
Four and twenty labourers were labouring - digging up their
gold.
I don't believe they knew that I was Long John Silver.
Saw Johnny Scarecrow make his rounds
in his jet-black 'mac (which he won't give
back) -
stole it from a snowsman.
Wond'ring Aloud
Wond'ring aloud -
how we feel today.
Last night sipped the
sunset -
my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours
as we start both
our hearts beating life
into each other.
Wond'ring aloud -
will the years treat us well.
As she floats in the kitchen,
I'm tasting the smell
of toast as the butter runs.
Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed
and I shake my head.
And it's only the giving
that makes you what you
are.
Up To Me
Take you to the cinema
and leave you in a
Wimpy Bar -
you tell me that we've gone to far -
come running up to
me.
Make the scene at Cousin Jack's -
leave him to put the bottles back
-
mends his glasses that I cracked -
well that one's up to me.
Buy a
silver cloud to ride -
pack the tennis club inside -
trouser cuffs hung far too
wide -
well it was up to me.
Tyres down on your bicycle -
your nose
feels like an icicle -
the yellow fingered smoky girl
is looking up to
me.
Well I'm a common working man
with a half of bitter - bread and
jam
and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man -
when the copper fades
away.
The rainy season comes to pass -
the day-glo pirate sinks at last
-
and if I laughed a bit too fast.
Well it was up to me.
My God
Oh people - what have you done -
locked Him in His golden cage.
Made Him bend to your religion -
Him resurrected from the grave.
He is the god of nothing -
if that's all that you can see.
You are
the god of everything
He's inside you and me.
So lean upon Him
gently
and don't call on Him to save you
from your social graces
and the sins you used to waive.
The bloody Church of England -
in chains of history -
requests your earthly presence at
the vicarage for tea.
And the graven image you-know-who -
with His plastic crucifix -
he's got him fixed
-
confuses me as to who and where and why -
as to how he gets his kicks.
Confessing to the endless sin -
the endless whining sounds.
You'll be praying till next Thursday to
all the gods that you can count.
Hymn 43
Our father high in heaven-smile down upon
your son.
who's busy with his money games - his women and his gun.
Oh Jesus save me!
And the unsung Western hero, killed an Indian or three
and then he made his name in Hollywood
to set the white man free.
Oh Jesus save me!
If Jesus saves - well, He'd better save Himself
from the gory glory
seekers who use His name in death.
Oh Jesus save me!
Well, I saw Him in the city and on the mountains of the moon -
His cross was rather bloody -
He could hardly roll His stone.
Oh Jesus save me.
Slipstream
Well
the lush separation unfolds you -
and the products of wealth
push you along
on the bow wave
of the spiritless undying selves.
And you press on God's
waiter your last dime -
as he hands you the bill.
And you spin in the
slipstream -
tideless - unreasoning -
paddle right out of the mess.
Locomotive Breath
In the shuffling madness
of the
locomotive breath,
runs the all-time loser,
headlong to his death.
He feels
the piston scraping -
steam breaking on his brow -
old Charlie stole the
handle and
the train it won't stop going -
no way to slow down.
He sees his
children jumping off
at the stations - one by one.
His woman and his best
friend -
in bed and having fun.
He's crawling down the corridor
on his
hands and knees -
old Charlie stole the handle and
the train it won't stop going
-
no way to slow down.
He hears the silence howling -
catches angels as
they fall.
And the all-time winner
has got him by the balls.
He picks up
Gideons Bible -
open at page one -
God He stole the handle and
the
train won't stop going -
no way to slow down.
Wind-Up
When I was young and they packed me off to school
and they taught me
how not to play the game.
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success
or if
they said that I was just a fool.
So I left there in the morning with their God
tucked underneath my arm -
their half-assed smiles and the book of rules.
And
I asked this God a question and by way of firm reply
He said - I'm not the
kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone
who cares):
before I'm through, I'd like to say my prayers -
I don't believe
you:
you had the whole damn thing all wrong -
He's not the kind you have to
wind up on Sundays.
Well you can excommunicate me on my way to Sunday
school
and have all the Bishops harmonise these lines -
How do you dare to tell
me that I'm my Father's son
when that was just an accident of Birth.
I'd rather
look around me - compose a better song
'cos that's the honest measure of my
worth.
In your pomp and all your glory you're a poorer man than me,
as you
lick the boots of death born out of fear.
I don't believe you:
you had the whole
damn thing all wrong -
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
BONUS TRACKS:
Lick Your Fingers Clean (see 20 Years Of Jethro Tull)
All titles © Salamander & Son Ltd./ Chrysalis Music Ltd.
+ 21/01/01