Texty: The Indelicates. Burn All The Photographs.

From dust things sprang before, but nothing seems to grow here anymore.
Just patient little children waiting for what came before
She'd angled the barrel into her chin
The last of the face cream still smeared on her skin
And the gun in the puddle of blood is no fun
'Cause it's all an illusion, here's a lens
Here's the scene
Then go over and over the war still unwon
Here's a camera, take it, make the world clean!

So Burn all the photographs
I'll not own anyone
I'll throw the hand grenade
If you shoot the gun
It's what everyone wanted
In the long run
BURN BURN BURN

From things dust sprang before but nothing seems to die here anymore
Just dying scrabbling old men waiting at the nursery door
He'd practiced his speeches, his gestures, his ease
Pictured rehearsing spontaneity
And the gun in the puddle of blood is no fun,
'Cause it's all an ambition to take a thing home
And the cold in his eye's untouched by anyone
But caught by the camera and raised up in stone.

So Burn all the photographs
I'll not own anyone
I'll throw the hand grenade
If you shoot the gun
It's what everyone wanted
In the long run
BURN BURN BURN

Burn all the photographs
Destroy the negatives
I'll wipe the hard drive
If you spill the fixatives
Burn down the darkroom
Tear all the prints
BURN BURN BURN
BURN BURN BURN
BURN BURN BURN BURN BURN