Eine Kleine Nichtmusik

Witty and pertinent observations on matters of great significance OR Incoherent jottings on total irrelevancies OR Something else altogether OR All of the above

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Well, I suppose it would save all that tedious lying to Parliament in order to get the Army to go and do his illegal killing

In among all Tony Blair's pathetic posturing in the hope of being listened to by some other country, somewhere statesmanlike grasp of the realities of modern foreign policy over the past week, I chanced to be listening to a CD of Simon and Garfunkel which included the song quoted below. Evidently not everything about growing up in the Sixties has become out of date, even if Blair has.

Incidentally, many people think it's a Paul Simon song, but in fact it was written by Ian Campbell, in whose eponymous Folk Group both the Daves Swarbrick and Pegg, later of Fairport Convention, made early appearances.

The Sun is Burning

The sun is burning in the sky
Strands of cloud are gently drifting by
In the park the busy bees are droning
In the flowers among the trees
And the sun burns in the sky

Now the sun is in the west
Little kids lie down to take their rest
And the couples in the park
Are holding hands and waiting for the dark
And the sun is in the west

Now the sun is sinking low
Children playing know it's time to go
High above a spot appears
A little blossom blooms and then drops near
And the sun is sinking low

Now the sun has come to earth
Shrouded in a mushroom cloud of death
Death comes in a blinding flash
Of hellish heat and leaves a smear of ash
And the sun has come to earth

Now the sun has disappeared
All is darkness, anger, pain and fear
Twisted sightless wrecks of men
Go groping on their knees and cry in pain
And the sun has disappeared

It isn't only Mr Blair who is thinking about the legacy he will leave when, unloved and unlamented, he finally has the - I was going to write guts, but that is so clearly not the word for this most gutless of Prime Ministers - decency? honesty? ah, hell, none of them fit: when he buggers off for good. Will he have left one thing of even half the value of that not-especially-outstanding song? No.


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