money

I read the news in a paper:
no flowers, please, donations to charity
like the N.S.P.C.V.d.G.G. -
yeh, send the money
to Guy and Hugh and David and me.

It's a joke,
there is no hope left,
oh, whoever might disagree.

Tell me juicy rumours,
dish me the dirt,
go on and rip the back right off my shirt.

Tell me how I hate Hugh Banton,
tell us that the bank account is zero
and that anyway there's non-one left to play to...
oh, well, there you go.

Are we ever going to get this act together on time?

Peter Hammill about his independence and the myth of breaking up Van Der Graaf Generator just when they became successful!

Question: There has never been a time when you thought “Oh maybe I should use this producer because it sounds more…"?

I read the news in a paper:
no flowers, please, donations to charity
like the N.S.P.C.V.d.G.G. -
yeh, send the money
to Guy and Hugh and David and me.

It's a joke,
there is no hope left,
oh, whoever might disagree.

Tell me juicy rumours,
dish me the dirt,
go on and rip the back right off my shirt.

Tell me how I hate Hugh Banton,
tell us that the bank account is zero

Here's the modern political man, for sure he's nobody's fool,
believes in media coverage as a promotional tool.
Trust in him because he's got the right face;
just in case you harbour doubt
here is a slogan to tout.

He's such a principled man, all heart, ruled by his brain:
You've seen the TV commercials, you've seen the poster campaign,
you've seen the ads in the papers, there's nothing else to explain.
Just some words to maximise the market,
just a message that will reach the target,
promises that turn to dust.
He is a man you can trust.

You got some shares, it's a capital venture,
you hedge your bets with a gilt-edged bond,
you're stretched out tight by the terms of debenture,
the game is on.

You got a fortune on paper,
how it shines on the VDU!
The simple truth is that sooner or later
the market plays you.

There goes the daylight!
Night comes on the city so soon.
In the dance of the typical capitalists
what piper plays the tune ?

Money's ideal, money's power,
money's the drive that's more than skin-deep,
hard at work through the twenty-four hours -

You got some shares in a speculative venture,
you got some stock in a gilt-edged bond,
you stretched out tight by the terms of debenture,
the game is on....
You chase the bulls in eternal corrida,
the thought of loss is more than you can bear,
you scan the index for a market leader,
a tip and a prayer.

You better see daylight:
night comes on the City so soon.
You say you are a christian capitalist,
but you dance to a different tune.

Jobs for the boys and dole for the shop-floor;
rationalize, strip the assets and run.
If the contract stalls,

Money where the mouth is, pennies on the eyes.
Times are hard and you find that you're in trouble
but it's hard to sympathize.
You talk up quite a story, you blow the bubble well.
Money where the mouth is, silver-tongue the sell.

Put up or shut up.
Cut price or cut-up.
Put up or shut up.

Money where the mouth is, will there be just desserts?
White-collar crime - yeah, the summing-up
will reckon surely nobody got hurt.
Hey, offer jam tomorrow - the cash will do quite well.
With your fair shares for all, try to practice what you preach

It's a triumph, material triumph,
mass consumption and conformity.
Down in hardware the shelves are stacked up
with the latest line in luxury.
The perfume counter has make-up ladies
all immaculately make-believe;
they sell you lifestyle package
and you'd better buy
because you're never going to leave.

Nations of shoppers consume in a frenzy
the security of branded names;
they're fighting in the food hall
for exotic vegetables and fruit, eco-friendly game.
It doesn't matter which currency you use
becasue they're all exactly the same.

It's not that complicated,
no more than a clench of fist -
she want to paint her heart out,
she want to tell it as she sees it is.
Authority condemns her,
they say to paint's a waste without a base,
some bedrock of idea.

Painting by numbers doesn't add up,
Painting by numbers doesn't add up,
it's passionless bed-rest,
work-body that's headless,
a head that's without heart -
painting by numbers doesn't add up to art.

Her constant vows mean nothing,
not content alone that sells -
The Market Theory beckons,
no-one remembers what the story tells;

Foot down in the GTi Cabriolet
to the villa in the South of France for vacation....
Keep your head down, baby,
keep your hair in golden curls
and you will always be his,
and you will always be his best girl.

Fast forward on the handycam video;
top that tan up, glowing U/V on the sunbed;
at the health farm you'll be
guarding his investment well.

Keep your head down, baby,
keep your wits about you now...
and you will always be his,
and you will always be his best girl.

Beads and bangles, it's too late
to claim your independence now: