This is a raw and furious protest anthem that directly equates political silence with lethal complicity. The central, driving thesis is laid bare in the chorus: "Silence is yes... If you don't hear me, that's because I agree." This framework transforms inaction from a passive state into an active, willing endorsement of atrocity. The song opens with a stark image of forced displacement—"2 million are marching, from their own homeland"—framing this not as a natural disaster but as a deliberate crime enabled by the quiet of those in power. The silence of institutions becomes synonymous with hunger, killing, and complicity, a moral abdication that the singer refuses to let stand.

The lyrics then launch into a scorching, specific indictment, naming perceived culprits. The "Democrats" and the "weak hollow blues" are condemned for their "dispicable conduct" and "treacherous" lethargy, accused of a cowardly failure to confront fascism and human rights violations. This isn't generic anger; it's a bill of particulars, citing the brutality of ICE and the ease with which fascists take control, while elected officials are portrayed as "spineless, repulsive Washington cons." The repeated, shouted question—"What was your fee?"—reduces their silence to a transaction, implying their inaction is bought and paid for with blood-stained shekels, a charge of profound moral corruption.

Ultimately, the song is a blistering call to break the covenant of silence. It positions the speaker and the listeners in opposition to a compromised political system, where "humanity weeps" while the powerful remain quiet. The rising laughter of the fascists underscores the consequence: silence isn't neutrality; it's surrender. By declaring that "it's time to stand up / it's time for to question," the song moves from accusation to mobilization, insisting that the only moral response to a "disgrace to the nation" is to scream the truth that silence seeks to bury. The final, repeated chorus stands as both an epitaph for the betrayed and a creed for the resistant.

Silence is Killing

This song is the raw, shattered autobiography of a man clinging to the myth of the "True Blue American Hero" while his life unravels in the grim reality that myth has created. Born symbolically on the Fourth of July in the "back of a battered limousine," his origin story is a tawdry parody of American exceptionalism—a child of a "queen" father and a hooker mother, his very conception a complex lie. He enlists in the armed forces, the classic pathway to heroic identity, only to return home with a row of medals and two missing legs, a walking metaphor for a nation that glorifies sacrifice but refuses to see the "trouble in my hurting mind." The chorus is a bitter, ironic mantra: his proclaimed heroism is worthless against an "economic bubble" that perpetually cycles him into the county jail, highlighting the brutal gap between patriotic image and disposable reality.

His personal descent mirrors a national moral decay. The relationship with Susie Ann Mc Donald begins as a dark alley initiation into manhood and spirals into a tragedy of miscarriages, abandonment, and addiction—"she's been seen shooting scag for a hit." Their doomed union embodies a broken American dream: the springtime marriage that yields no future, ending in a fractured, toxic wasteland. His trauma is medicalized into a "fortune on meds," and he's left "surfing on other ladies beds," a rootless ghost in the "bleak" land he once fought for. The specific, crumbling details of his life become indictments of a larger societal failure, where brotherhood has been killed "from sea to stinking sea."

The song fades out on a howl of disillusionment, the repeated claim of "true blue American hero" now hollowed into a haunting, empty echo. The protagonist is a living casualty of a system that manufactures heroes only to discard them, that champions economic forces that criminalize poverty, and that offers no sanctuary for the physical and psychological wounds it generates. "America, America, your lights gone out on me" is the final, devastating diagnosis—not just a personal complaint, but a eulogy for a promised land that has extinguished its own guiding light, leaving its heroes lost in the dark alleys of its own creation.

True Blue American Hero

The Past Remains its Own Place

This song paints a raw portrait of a man shattered by abandonment and addiction. In the depths of his despair, he blames a departing partner for leaving him with the children and escapes into the bottle, drowning in self-pity and comparing his life to a rigged casino game. The "land of losers" he inhabits is one of monotonous survival—paying bills, working a dead-end job, and staring at a future that seems utterly bare, haunted by unanswered questions and the echoing absence of the one who left.

Yet, a slow and painful turn begins. Small, practical acts of reclaiming his life emerge: the doctor intervenes, the fog of alcohol lifts, and he finds solace in simple domestic routines like cutting the grass and making spaghetti. Healing is shown not as a sudden victory, but as a daily choice—symbolized by putting down the bottle, finding music again, and planning quiet trips to the mountains. He asserts a stubborn, proud resilience in simply "still ticking over," even amidst the "dirty clouds."

The conclusion reveals a complex, bittersweet peace. While he claims happiness and a newfound tranquility, with a cleaner house and quieter life, the past still intrudes. He admits to missing the chaotic, human presence of his partner—the swearing, the mess, the shared struggles. His recovery is presented as authentic but incomplete, a "dry" and manageable life where pride is taken in enduring, even as the ghost of what was lost occasionally clouds the brighter weather.

Stranded

This powerful piece delves into the intense internal conflict of a person split into two warring selves: a cynical, despairing "I" and an optimistic, hopeful "he" who calls himself the soul. They inhabit the same existence, a shared "black hole," yet perceive the world in diametric opposition. Where one sees only bleakness and runs down "the darkest streets," the other sees color, finds joy in rain, and marvels at smiling flowers. This creates a relentless psychological tug-of-war, where every daily moment—from watching TV to finishing a meal—becomes a battleground between bitterness and grace, between a "master and a creep."

The tension escalates as the narrator catalogues their differences: one self is fun-loving and trusting, while the other is sour, watchful, and locked behind fences of mistrust. The chorus acts as the bitter self's anthem, a lament from the shadows directed at those who live in the light "above." However, a crucial shift begins when the voice of "Mr. Black" interrupts, demanding action. This sparks a moment of integration and rebellion; the two sides finally communicate, with Mr. Black urging a reckless turn of the wheel and Mr. Pink agreeing to "grab a drink." What was once a civil war becomes a potential partnership.

The poem concludes not with the eradication of one self, but with a hard-worn pact of unification. The final lines transform the opening stanza: "we're joining forces upon my soul / I will rock each time he rolls." This suggests an acceptance of the internal duality, a commitment to balance where the strength of one compensates for the vulnerability of the other. The journey ends not in the elimination of the dark streets, but in a newfound, resilient solidarity to face them together, rocking and rolling through life's complexities as one complete, if complicated, human being.

The Two of Us

This haunting ballad starkly illustrates the dual plight of Victorian England's most vulnerable children: enslaved by the cruel mechanics of the workhouse and sedated into silent submission by opioid-laced "soothing syrups." The "55 children" introduced are ghostly and silent, "opium chained," their cries and teething pains muted by laudanum or Mrs. Winslow's syrup—a "sugar and spice" that leads to their slow demise. This establishes a devastating contrast between the era's outward propriety and its systemic poisoning of the poor, who are rendered as quiet, lifeless shadows even before death claims them.

The verses then relentlessly catalog the brutal realities of the workhouse system, a designed engine of punishment for the poor, the ill, and the unmarried. The children face a regimented hell of ten-hour workdays de-threading rope, punitive isolation in dark cells, cold water washings, and severe beatings for minor infractions like speaking or smuggling food. Their "finest cuisine" is gruel, and their existence is one of constant, dehumanizing labor designed to "keep them in line," all under the indifferent gaze of a state and monarchy that viewed poverty as a moral failing.

The song culminates by merging these two threads of suffering, showing how readily the children "danced daily with death." Malnourished and skeletal, they succumbed to epidemics and the harsh winter, their bodies thrown on heaps. The very "soothing syrup" meant to quiet them becomes the final agent of their destruction, with overdoses leading to agonizing withdrawal and death. The final, accusatory cry—"Oh Victoria what have you done"—holds the era's namesake queen and its entire social order responsible for this genocide of the innocent, painting a picture of a society that preferred to drug and imprison its impoverished youth rather than offer them care or compassion.



Victoria's Children

This powerful protest song articulates a profound and weary disillusionment with a modern world corrupted by greed and hypocrisy. The narrator feels alienated in a "world of madness" where the media has lost its way, big business has poisoned the community, and the voices of the "little man" are systematically silenced. The repeated lament, "So let tomorrow start without me," becomes a refrain of withdrawal, signaling a refusal to participate in a society where civic life has turned bitter and hope has drained to a "deathly grey." The chorus crystallizes this rejection, bidding "farewell to smoke and mirrors" and the "one-eyed men" who believe wealth can force conformity, mourning the deluded while yearning for a pure, new beginning—a "brand new Amen."

The verses paint a detailed portrait of this societal decay, drawing on potent cultural imagery. The reference to "Mr. Potter's ruling Pottersville" explicitly frames the community as a dystopia from It's a Wonderful Life, now overrun by a "herd of greed and liars." The narrator witnesses the hostile takeover of his small town by so-called "gentlefolk" whose strength is intimidation, backed by a complicit legal system. This loss is compounded by the emptiness of "hollow as a drum" politicians who speak only for the "scum," leaving the narrator isolated and spiritually exhausted, "finished making hay" in a field that no longer yields anything of value.

The song's turning point and final resolution arrive in the poignant encounter with the Amish. Their act of building a community where a house costs "a neighbour and 'good day'" stands in stark, revelatory contrast to the commodified, dollar-deformed world the narrator has described. This vision of a society built on mutual aid and human connection, not capital, becomes the ultimate indictment of the madness. Having seen this alternative, the narrator's withdrawal is complete. The final, decisive "I rest my case... nothing more to say" transforms his earlier despair into a conscious, principled exit. He checks out of the corrupted tomorrow, placing his last hope in the silent rebuke and radical simplicity of that "brand new Amen."

Let Tomorrow Start Without Me

This is a powerful and vulnerable exploration of the search for self in a world demanding fixed answers. The speaker lives in the honest, bewildering space of questioning—“Am i he or am i she, or they, I don’t know”—and faces a society that insists on knowing on their behalf. The chorus acts as both refuge and rebuke: nature embraces fluidity without question, while society “has lost the plot,” pretending to understand something even the speaker cannot yet name. This tension between internal truth and external expectation forms the heart of the piece.

The verses unfold like a series of confrontations—with wise men, neighbors, schools, shrinks, and the church—each institution offering rigid definitions, absolutes, or dismissals. The school sees only black and white; the shrink calls it “just a phase”; the church invokes Adam and Eve as the only possible blueprint. In each case, the speaker’s lived reality—a feeling present “since I was four”—is invalidated. Yet, within this struggle, there are moments of clarity: “the who is just you” suggests an identity that transcends labels, and the defiant question “Which me I wonder does he want to fight?” challenges the very notion that identity must be legible to others to be valid.

The song ends not with resolution, but with a quiet, resonant honesty. The fade-out—“I just don’t know”—is not a failure of understanding, but a courageous refusal to choose a self that doesn’t fit. It honors the ongoing journey and rejects the pressure to conform to someone else’s script. In a world shouting absolutes, the poem’s power lies in its gentle, steadfast uncertainty—an act of integrity in the face of every system that would rather define you than listen.

You or They or I

This song is a clear-eyed and resolute farewell, one that chooses clean closure over the painful cycle of an on-again, off-again relationship. The narrator firmly resists the pull of old comforts, declaring they won’t “fumble,” “fall,” or “crawl” back into the familiar arms or bed, grounding their resolve in the adage that “every dog must have its day”—a claim to their own turn at independence and self-respect. This isn't a bitter ending, but a deliberate one, emphasized by the repeated, vivid imagery of finality: “Curtains are falling, hear the fat lady sing,” and the decisive act to “burn all those bridges” and “cut every string.”

The lyrics then weave in a thread of warm nostalgia, honestly acknowledging what made the relationship worthwhile. Memories of exciting times in Spain, partying till dawn in Barcelona, and the acknowledgment that they were “a lot better than most” serve to honor the past without romanticizing it. This balance is key—the speaker admits to loneliness and sadness when remembering the “truly great times,” but quickly counters with the pragmatic truth that “it isn’t broken, it’s just run its course,” likening their union to a bet on a winning horse that has now finished its race.

Ultimately, the song settles into a tone of wistful but firm well-wishing. The goodbye is straightforward—“So long love, be seeing you, Adios and fare well”—with a touch of modern politeness in the hope to “keep me posted.” The conclusion carries a sense of mature relief; there’s “no need now for tears,” just a mutual acknowledgment that they both saw this end coming and have, importantly, survived it. The final repetition of the curtain call and bridge-burning acts as a closing mantra, reinforcing the conscious, if difficult, choice to walk forward into separate futures without looking back

Curtains are Falling

This gritty rock opera opens not with magic, but with an inquisition, violently subverting the classic fairytale. The speaker, likely one of the stepsisters or the stepmother, aggressively interrogates Cinderella, accusing her of being a manipulative liar who has blackened their good names. Every element of the familiar story is savagely deconstructed: her ashes are proof of deceit, her tiny foot a fraud hidden under a dress, and her prince a "royal dimwit" she has conned. The music mirrors this confrontation, building from sparse, tense acoustics into explosive, screaming choruses that embody the raw fury of the accusation, framing Cinderella not as a heroine but as a "lyin' deceiving monster" who deserves execution.

The narrative climaxes in a shockingly dark turn of domestic horror. The speaker's threats escalate from mere accusation to graphic violence, vowing to turn a pumpkin into a guillotine. Cinderella’s response is not passive submission but deadly agency: she serves a pot of tea "laced with lemon and arsenic." The subsequent "trial" is a farce of rewritten narratives, where publishers choose the most marketable lie and sanctify it as the "official" fairytale. The truth, it seems, is wholly malleable, sold to the highest bidder as the haunting drone of a banjo underscores the eerie, unresolved corruption of the tale.

The final verse shatters any remaining certainty, propelling the ancient grudge into the modern era. A lie detector test supposedly exonerates Cinderella and implicates the sisters, but the speaker immediately undercuts this, admitting they too prefer spinning lies. The song concludes with a brilliant, jarring twist: a news report that a distant cousin is suing Disney for fifty million, for slandering the family. This meta-commentary seals the opera's core theme: that storytelling is a battleground of power, profit, and perpetual revision, where there is no one truth—only competing fictions fighting for control, and now, for colossal financial damages.

Cinderella

Collection of songwriters under the leadership of Bill Kinlough

Cinderella

The Great Unwashed

Related tracks