A story..
10,000 bottles of beer on the wall,
10,000 bottles of beer.
Knock one down, count it back round,
999 bottles of beer on the wall..
I'm lost in the late seventies, & I know ahead of me comes electro-therapy
I have 23 ECT's, 3 times a week - & even now, I dunno who I be.
I dunno who I see, as strangers in white coats grab a hold of my soul
Electrodes turn my emotions cold. Whether they know, how my life unfolds
Or whether they kill my thoughts of old.. I still feel what its like, alone.
Onto my "comfort zone", with padded walls that speak, whipser and groan
Working for drones who seclude me - on my own, without a phone to call
My loved ones at all. I feel like a sheltered, stiffed up parasol,
But without anything to balance me out, stupid and useless to shout
Obscenities, when they hold my amenities forever in their cluth of doubt.
My life is about - remembering long term memories, that will always be
Something that means so much to me, for my short term cannot see
What I've become, washed up World War II scum - thats forgotten
Just another bitter, old man who's slowly sunk to the bottom.
They've drained me rotten, I feel empty enough to fill my body in tears
But with so much already erased, I haven't cried in years.
465 bottles of beer on the wall,
465 bottles of beer.
Knock one down, count it back round,
464 bottles of beer on the wall.
He's still the same.. motionless to lame, one of few, easy to maintain.
Through his glare of pain, I see he still thinks that we fried his brain.
& that we're inhumane - all we did was analyse his thoughts 'n' dreams
Down the bottom of a problem, which leans towards it torn at the seams.
Born to receed, and leave a poor boy to grieve for what he believes
Is the truth - yet medical proof just proves his mind's treading leaves.
Rejecting what he needs.. & thats his head in a clinical safe-state.
Not a cynical mind-frame, of a war veteran devoured to this date..
He either cowers, hates - or spits back the contents of his plate
Into a sweet nurses face. Brought into a world at the wrong time & place.
But ain't that fate?
*A 17 year old boy who graced our steps and slept at our gate
Only to awake, shaking in violence, hauntingly silent.. he waits
For US to speak HIS name - & with that, the trust is gone.
Suddenly attacks the staff so brutal & strong..
.. he's put into a comfort cell, where for now, he belongs.*
.
& for that same song he sings, kills my own soul and acts a sign
We'll probably never know what's going on in this poor kids mind.
200 bottles of beer on the wall,
200 bottles of beer.
Knock one down, count it back round,
199 bottles of beer on the wall.
-Brix.
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