Permission to Dance
gimme your hand
I wanna shake it
permission to dance?
we wanna take it
but we´ve got to fill out a form, give six months notice
spin on our heads and spout hocus pocus
we can state out case but the cause is hopeless
as we lock horns with jobsworth jokers
pleased as punch as they try to halt us
with Pinocchio noses pointing out the small print
permission to dance is what they won´t ever give
no right no way no pride no say
no dance no drums no chance no fun
no more no
bring back the Yes, man, ignore the no body
less bans, more jams, let´s give a little give
cos no man’s land is no place to live
and if your mouth´s so big, make your message positive
better get a festival
Ramadan to Notting Hill
can we plan a carnival?
yes we can, so we will
savour every syllable
the only word we really need
is okeydokey, yessiree
si, oui, ya, da
Hannuka, Mardi Gras
si, oui, ya, da
lead us where the dances are
escape that bar
liberate your hips
truth of the matter´s gonna kiss you on the lips
the stamp of approval needs a great big lick
cos it´s not just kids getting teenage kicks
stop pen pushin, start toe-tappin
cut the finger waggin and add hand clappin
yes give yes get yes live yes let’s
yes do yes please yes you yes me
express that yes
the best word of all languages
si, oui, ya, da
Glastonbury, Diwali, Fleadh
si, oui, ya, da
Hogmanay, say ooh la la
nod not shake it
give a bit and take it
nod not shake it
if it´s not fair, break it
nod not shake it
live with give
let the rhythm beat the bans
permission to dance
is a universal passport
stamped by the people, not the man
yes means yes we said
yes means yes we said
yes means yes we said yes!
Rats In The Attic
The neighbours are at it again,
their scattergun domestic shakes the foundations,
setting off the howl of a dog
whimpering in nearby neglect.
A rumble of revellers nightbus
over the speedbumps of his slumber.
The dull chunter of a free-range alcoholic
and the pickaxe wit of overnight track workers
keep time with the pounding crunk of his inner panic.
The pre-dawn echo of yesterday´s complaints
is hectored away by the nagging advice
of an elder brother; lecturing from the grave,
on how best to cope with the voices.
Gas bags, rattling in his head.
Angry bed bugs.
Hush now. Baby needs his sleep,
for tomorrow will be war.
