A writer must “know and have an ever-present consciousness that this world is a world of fools and rogues… tormented with envy, consumed with vanity; selfish, false, cruel, cursed with illusions… He should free himself of all doctrines, theories, etiquettes, politics…” —Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?). “The nobility of the writer's occupation lies in resisting oppression, thus in accepting isolation” —Albert Camus (1913-1960). “What are you gonna do” —Bertha Brown (1895-1987).
Damn you masters of war – you that build the big guns You that build the death planes; you that build all the bombs You that hide behind walls; you that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks
You that never done nothin’, but build to destroy You play with my world, like it’s your little toy You put a gun in my hand, and you hide from my eyes And you turn and run farther when the fast bullets fly
Like Judas of old, you lie and deceive A world war can be won; you want me to believe But I see through your eyes, and I see through your brain Like I see through the water that runs down my drain
You fasten all the triggers, for the others to fire Then you sit back and watch, while the death count gets higher You hide in your mansion, while the young people’s blood Flows out of their bodies and is buried in the mud
You’ve thrown the worst fear that can ever be hurled Afraid to bring children, into the world For threatenin’ my baby, unborn and unnamed, You ain’t worth the blood that runs in your veins
How much do I know, to talk out of turn You might say that I’m young; you might say I’m unlearned But there’s one thing I know, though I’m younger than you Even Jesus would never forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question: is your money that good Will it buy you forgiveness; do you think that it could I think you will find, when your death takes its toll All the money you made will never buy back your soul
And I hope that you die, and your death will come soon I’ll follow your casket, on a pale afternoon And I’ll watch while you’re lowered, down to your deathbed And I’ll stand over your grave ‘til I’m sure that you’re dead
Masters of War by Bob Dylan (original lyrics)
ReplyDeleteDamn you masters of war – you that build the big guns
You that build the death planes; you that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls; you that hide behind desks
I just want you to know I can see through your masks
You that never done nothin’, but build to destroy
You play with my world, like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand, and you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther when the fast bullets fly
Like Judas of old, you lie and deceive
A world war can be won; you want me to believe
But I see through your eyes, and I see through your brain
Like I see through the water that runs down my drain
You fasten all the triggers, for the others to fire
Then you sit back and watch, while the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion, while the young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies and is buried in the mud
You’ve thrown the worst fear that can ever be hurled
Afraid to bring children, into the world
For threatenin’ my baby, unborn and unnamed,
You ain’t worth the blood that runs in your veins
How much do I know, to talk out of turn
You might say that I’m young; you might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know, though I’m younger than you
Even Jesus would never forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question: is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness; do you think that it could
I think you will find, when your death takes its toll
All the money you made will never buy back your soul
And I hope that you die, and your death will come soon
I’ll follow your casket, on a pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered, down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand over your grave ‘til I’m sure that you’re dead