New World Order


We have seen the new world order,

"buxom Brenda,

blonde beauty"1,

disporting in every park.

You think that’s mad? You think that’s mad?

There’s worse than that, there’s much worse than that!

Now Brenda is the new woman,

the new woman runs for parliament.

By poverty was she once driven,

now the payments on her Mayfair flat.

You think that’s bad? You think that’s bad?

There’s worse than that, there’s much worse than that!

Here corpses nail their own coffins,

slaves sell selves to the lowest bidder.

Clones write copy for Big Sister,

send it to themselves and then believe it.

Is this all? Is this all?

Is this all we have to offer?


We’re closing down the human race

and moving out to outer space,

we’ll leave the green and blue behind,

for some remoteness of the mind.

There Buxom Brenda in micro-chips

at 12% appreciates

advances of her lovers,

clones of lust,

each singly wrapped,

targeted at a niche market.

Let me take off your head,

you’re already dead

if you don’t wake up 

to the new world order.

We’re dead, we’re dead,

we’re off our heads,

if we can’t see through 

the new world order.


And what is this age

but cattle trucks in the sky

herding the great unwashed,

all smelly armpits,

sour feet,

and sunglasses,

to the abattoir 

in Jerusalem

that is the new world order

there to be koshered most unkindly

in the temple of Mammon.

Oh humanity! 

Oh humanity!

don’t go gently under that knife

for I do believe in you, I do believe in you

I do believe you have one more song left in you:

Laa ilaha illa'llah

    Laa ilaaha illa'llah

Muhammad rasoolu'llah

    'alaihi salatu'llah

1 Brenda's advertisement here alluded to lacks the phone number which graced the original found in a London phone box among a huge number of others.

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