This is a slightly uptempo version of the same song - a bit less of a dirge, strummed rather than finger - picked
Sargent Lee's Story
Ross Wallis
1 I was knitting on a train to help time pass when a man near me lent over and asked If I thought that knitting was good therapy, he said it was for him anyway just, sitting there watching me knit.
2 He said “you mind me talking to you? I don’t want to bore you, that’s not what I’d want to do, I just like sitting here watching you knit”.
3 “Something hand-made”’ he said, “that must feel good”, and his eyes filled up with tears, he hoped I understood. He said he'd been a sous-chef till they gave him the sack, and now he's only got these shelves to stack.
2 Sargent Lee of the infantry, didn't want to bore me with his history Now he's just stacking shelves all day.
1 “My name is Lee, I was a sergeant in the army, they don't look ex soldiers like me. But I have my car, my Xbox and my wide screen TV, everything that I need, everything that I need”.
2 He said he'd joined up after 9/11, to see the world, learn a trade, be occupied 24/7 And he was just sitting there watching me knit.
3 The CO said get on the transport, not saying where too, but they had all seen the news so of course they all knew. And it was hot in Iraq, in all that gear, the sand, the heat and the fear, the sand, the heat and the fear.
2 “They don't look after ex soldiers like me, it’s thank you very much and goodbye to the army, now I’m stacking shelves all day, stacking shelves for minimum pay”.
1 “I didn't join to kill, but the money was good, I drove big machines, and I cooked good food. I didn't know how I would feel till we got to Iraq, till we were actually there and we were under attack. And it was me they were trying to kill”.
2 “And I never saw them, but the CO he said shoot, so I kept my finger on the trigger like they told me to. And it was me they were trying to kill”.
3 “I didn't loose a leg, that might have been more easy, something at least that people could see, I bleed inside, where the pain I can hide, and I’m still hurting after all these years, still hurting after all of these years”.
2 “Iraq, it done my head in, PTSD, they give it a name, but it doesn't help me know who's to blame”.
1 “I can’t wash clean, the desert sand still in my hair, 12 years on it hasn't gone and it simply isn’t fair. Was I to blame when I wrote my name, did I have a choice? The moment I signed on the line I signed away my voice, but I never wanted to be there”.
2 “I used to cook, when I wasn't on patrol, cooking was my secondary role, and thats why it wasn't me that day”
2 “My good mates out on patrol there, were blown to bits by a teddy bear. An IED stuffed in a toy kangaroo, there was simply nothing I could do. Simply nothing I could do”.
2 “They don't look after you not once you leave, they never taught us how to grieve, and I don’t know why it wasn’t me that day”.
1 “Now I can't get the sand from under my nails, no matter how I scrub, washing always fails, I didn't join to kill, but the uniform was cool, and I got a medal too, for being such a fucking hero. A young and impressionable fool”.
2 “Sargent bloody Lee of the infantry, still bleeding internally, they taught us how to kill, but not how to grieve, and I still don't know why it wasn't me that day”.
3 “My dad was in the falklands, and saw men die, but he can’t talk about it, can’t help me understand why, And I can’t talk to my missies cause I know I’d only cry. And it’s still hurting after all of these years”.
2 “Sergeant bleeding Lee, sorry to be boring you with my history. I Just like sitting here watching you knit”.
Sitting here watching you knit
Sitting here watching you knit
Carved In Stone
A soldier dressed in rough blue serge
Lies face down on a muddy verge
No goodbyes, he died too soon
Blood and mud and a mortal wound
He was once a babe in arms
A beloved son a treasured one
Every one a mother’s son
All the names now carved in stone
And the young man who fired the gun
Did he believe when it all began
In king and country and in playing the game
To kill an enemy who believed the same
He too was a babe in arms
A beloved son a treasured one
Every one a mother’s son
All the names now carved in stone
A Wave from the platform to cheers and tears
tearstained cheeks and unspoken fears
A pretty young girl throws a flower
Caught up in the passion of the hour
The nationalistic patriotic jingoistic refrain
And only a mothers scant hidden pain
For once they all were babes in arms
Beloved sons, treasured ones
Every one a mother’s son
All the names now carved in stone
If the crowd that cheered them on their way
Knew then what they later came to say
Would they have cheered so load and felt so proud
Sending these children to an early grave
For once they all were babes in arms
Beloved sons treasured ones
Every one a mother’s son
All the names now carved in stone
And the cattle trucks that rattle by
Did the watchers stop to question why
Mothers, fathers, sons and daughters
Destined for that place of slaughter
All were once babes in arms
Beloved ones treasured ones
All the names now carved in stone
Every one from a mother begun
And the cattle trucks still rolling by
With bullock calves on their way to die
Deprived too soon of their mothers love
The fields and the sun and the sky above
They don’t have their names in stone
A number is the best they get
And when their time and number comes
Who among us knows regret?
The young drug dealer, knifed for turf
A man in a suicide vest, blessed or cursed
A tortured man who won’t confess
A hapless hopeless homelessness
The fascist who beats the air with a fist
A man beats his wife when he comes home pissed
The bully and the cheat who wreck other peoples lives
The drug addict and the child labourer who strives
If there is no god above
Nor earth mother beneath our feet
It’s up to each of us to love
Each and every heart that beats
For all of us were babes in arms
Beloved ones treasured ones
A mother is where we all begun
A fact that should be carved in stone
Magpie Eye
An old man at the car boot sale
Buying toy cars each week without fail
And adding to his collection of interesting nails
I catch a reflection I don’t want to see
That sad old man is me
That sad old hoarder is me
I go to a sale, I can’t resist
Looking for that bargain that is not to be missed
And as quick as that, hand over fist
My hard earned cash departs
For that on which I’ve set my heart
A thing with which I will never part
The garage is so full I can’t get in
The attic ceiling is falling in
What are all these things to which I cling
As if I haven’t got enough
I’m still buying more stuff
It should all go I know, but letting go is tough
Oh me oh my my magpie eye
Collecting things and making piles
I think it’s time to change my style
Live simply and let go
Live simply and let go
Live simply and let go
My mother is lost in an endless chore
Sorting through paperwork stacked to the door
On tables and beds and chairs and floor
All of this paper, what’s it for?
Knitting patterns, receipts, recipes, family snaps
Agendas and minutes from meetings held long before
We binned what she’d let us, then let a container to contain the remainder
I’m clearing out my father’s draws
So many tools, Bradles and awls
All carefully vanished, polished and stored
How many gadgets can one man use?
Screwdrivers galore!
How many holes does one need to bore
What was all the screwing for?
Actually don’t ask - I wouldn’t be here
Every draw is stuffed to the brim
With pens that don’t work and short bits of string
Keys without locks and plastic bling
Incase of a rainy day
Kept ‘cause we can’t throw stuff away
Then I can’t find it anyway
Shuffling piles every which way
Oh me oh my my magpie eye
Collecting things and making piles
I think it’s time to change my style
Live simply and let go
Live simply and let go
Live simply and let go
Live simply and let go
Even in the virtual realm
I’ve maxed out on my telephone
80 thousand photographs and my storage is blown
I’ll have to pay more cash
To keep my photos stashed
To pay to store all this virtual trash
I sit down to watch tv
On every channel it seems to me
Living without stuff is an impossibility
With antiques shows and other claptrap
And ad men vying to sell me crap
All the hard sell feeding my habit
I came into this world without a thing
I’ll leave it again bare bone and skin
While I still can, it’s time for the work to begin
Live as simply as a monk
Live without these piles of effing junk
All you need is love
All you need is love
And a little bit of food
Shelter, living loving and giving
And all you need is love
Oh me oh my my magpie eye
Collecting things and making piles
I think it’s time to change my style
Live simply and let go
Live simply and let go
Live simply And let go
Live simply and let go
Live simply And let go
Camille
His sculptors hands, so full of skill at moulding pliant clay
They caress you too, Camille, knead the thigh on which they lay
And you lie beside your teacher, learning how to live and die
The elder and the younger, the teacher and the child
Camille Claudelle, there’s a story to tell
You poured your life into your work, your lovers, your imploring girl
Your allegory of mature age, and the story that it tells
Yet you turned your back on all that, not another piece to make
I wonder why you had to hide, to hide such deep heartache?
Camille Claudelle, there’s a story to tell
A sculptress, a genius, an artist, and a girl
Those hungry eyes that drew you, devoured your naked form,
exposed each pink inch to brush and ink, his strong and manly charm
He had you dancing nude as a lover and a muse
Then abandoned you forever when you had no further use
Camille Claudelle, there’s a story to tell
A sculptress, a genius, an artist, and a girl
Who flourished briefly in this patriarchal world
He hungers and he wants, he needs you to be bold
and you comply by melting, like the wax into his mould
He would smother all his longing in your alabaster breast
Then turn you into marble, cold and dead beside warm flesh
Camille Claudelle, there’s a story to tell
A sculptress, a genius, an artist, and a girl
Who flourished briefly in this patriarchal world
Then just as swiftly to disappear
He would cast you into metal, into lifeless green gold bronze
Capture you forever, for the art worlds famed salons
And leave the very real you to an asylum’s cold confine
To live another 40 years in the prison of your mind
Camille Claudelle, there’s a story to tell
A sculptress, a genius, an artist, and a girl
Who flourished briefly in this patriarchal world
Then just as swiftly to disappear
To end your days shedding endless tears
He planted a seed inside you, it grew in a fertile field
And quickly you did too, to be perhaps as good as he,
Or maybe even better, was it that he couldn’t take
That you should find recognition, and your master overtake
Camille Claudelle, there’s a story to tell
A sculptress, a genius, an artist, and a girl
Who flourished briefly in this patriarchal world
Then just as swiftly to disappear
To end your days shedding endless tears
Confined in a mad house for 40 years
Maybe your fire died, with the child inside your womb
Or the jealousy of siblings, who consigned you to your living tomb
You did your best to destroy your work, your genius, your life
While Rodin, your love and mentor, returned to his faithful wife
Camille Claudelle, there’s a story to tell
A sculptress, a genius, an artist, and a girl
Who flourished briefly in this patriarchal world
Then just as swiftly to disappear
To end your days in endless tears
Confined in a mad house for 40 years
When you should be one of arts greatest pioneers
One of arts greatest pioneers