Bob Doyle

 
1916-2009 Born on North King Street & fought against fascism in the Spanish civil war

"The fight today is as vital as it was in Spain, but remember we are fighting for an idea and though we must at times defend ourselves guns ca

nnot impose an idea; the four weapons of victory are - education, organisation, civil disobedience & unity.

From my lifetime of struggles these are the lessons I've learned - take up the fight and let us fight together for the liberation of mankind."

LA LUCHA CONTINUA

EVIDENTLY CHICKEN TOWN

the fucking cops are fucking keen 
to fucking keep it fucking clean
the fucking chief's a fucking swine
who fucking draws a fucking line
at fucking fun and fucking games
the fucking kids he fucking blames
are nowehere to be fucking found
anywhere in chicken town

the fucking scene is fucking sad
the fucking news is fucking bad
the fucking weed is fucking turf
the fucking speed is fucking surf
the fucking folks are fucking daft
don't make me fucking laugh
it fucking hurts to look around
everywhere in chicken town

the fucking train is fucking late
you fucking wait you fucking wait
you're fucking lost and fucking found
stuck in fucking chicken town

the fucking view is fucking vile
for fucking miles and fucking miles
the fucking babies fucking cry
the fucking flowers fucking die
the fucking food is fucking muck
the fucking drains are fucking fucked
the colour scheme is fucking brown
everywhere in chicken town

the fucking pubs are fucking dull
the fucking clubs are fucking full
of fucking girls and fucking guys
with fucking murder in their eyes
a fucking bloke is fucking stabbed
waiting for a fucking cab
you fucking stay at fucking home
the fucking neighbors fucking moan
keep the fucking racket down
this is fucking chicken town

the fucking train is fucking late
you fucking wait you fucking wait
you're fucking lost and fucking found
stuck in fucking chicken town

the fucking pies are fucking old
the fucking chips are fucking cold
the fucking beer is fucking flat
the fucking flats have fucking rats
the fucking clocks are fucking wrong
the fucking days are fucking long
it fucking gets you fucking down
evidently chicken town

JOHN COOPER CLARKE

Prometheus

Millburn: Okay, so uh...do you have anything to back that up? I mean, look, if you're willing to discount three centuries of Darwinism, that's...wooh! But how do you know? Mm?
Elizabeth Shaw: I don't. But it's what I choose to believe.

Boots of Spanish Leather

|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
|--0----1|--1----0|--0----1|--1----0|--0----0|
|-----0--|-----0--|-----0--|-----0--|-----0--|
|--0---0-|--2---2-|--0---0-|--2---2-|--0---0-|
|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
|3---3---|3---3---|3---3---|3---3---|3---3---|


 |--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
 |--0-----|--3----3|---0-0-0|---01---|--0----1|--1----0|
*|-----0-0|-----0--|--------|-2---2--|-----0--|-----0--|
*|--0---0-|--2---2-|--2---2-|--0---0-|--0---0-|--2---2-|
 |--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
 |3---3---|0---0---|0---0---|2---2---|3---3---|3---3---|

  Well I'm sailin' away my   own true love             

|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
|--0-----|--3----3|---01---|--0----1|--1----0|
|-----0-0|-----0--|-2---2--|-----0--|-----0--|
|--0---0-|--2---2-|--0---0-|--0---0-|--2---2-|
|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
|3---3---|0---0---|2---2---|3---3---|3---3---|

      I'm sailin' away   ^  mornin'            
               in the

|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
|--0-----|--3----3|--3-----|-1------|--0----1|--1----0|
|-----0-0|-----0--|-----0--|---0-2-2|-----0--|-----0--|
|--0---0-|--2---2-|--2---2-|--2---0-|--0---0-|--2---2-|
|--------|--------|--------|3-------|--------|--------|
|3---3---|0---0---|0---0---|----2---|3---3---|3---3---|

     Is ^ somethin^send ^ across the sea    
       there     I can   you from

|--------|--------|--------|--------|---01---|--------|
|--0-----|--3----3|---01---|--0-----|-----3--|--0-----|
|-----0-0|-----0--|-2---2--|-----0-0|-2-----2|-----0-0|*
|--0---0-|--2---2-|--0---0-|--0---0-|--0---0-|--0---0-|*
|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|--------|
|3---3---|0---0---|2---2---|3---3---|2---2---|3---3---|

 From the place ^  I'll be  landing?
           where

    Well I'm sailin away my own true love.
    I'm sailin' away in the mornin'
    Is there something I can bsend you from across the sea,
    From the place where I'll be landin'?

No, there's nothing you can bring me my own true love.
There's nothing I wish to be ownin'.
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled
from across that lonesome ocean.

    Well I just though you might want something fine
    made of silver or of golden
    either from the mountains of Madrid
    or the coast of Barcelona.

If I had the stars from the darkest night
and the diamonds from the deepest ocean,
I'd foresake them all for your sweet kiss,
for that's all I'm wishin' to be ownin'

    That I might be gone a long old time,
    and it's only that I'm askin'.
    Is there something I can give you to remember me by,
    To make your time more easy passin'?

Oh how can, how can you ask me again?
It only brings me sorrow.
For the same thing that I want from you today
I would want again tomorrow.

Well I got a letter on a lonesome day.
It was from her ship a'sailin'.
Sayin' "I don't know when I'll be comin' back again.
It depends on how I'm feelin'."

Well if you my love must think that a'way
I'm sure your mind is a'roamin'.
I'm sure your heart is not with me
but with the country where you're goin'.

So take heed, take heed of the Western wind.
Take heed of the stormy weather.
And yes, there's something you can send back to me;
SPANISH BOOTS OF SPANISH LEATHER.

In mystery the soul abides