Episode 3: The birth of a Super-Hero
“…We are yours now”
“We are yours…”
“We are…”
The words dimmed into the distance as Batunga awoke. He looked around.
God had disappeared as abruptly as he had appeared – Ta da!
But not before planting a Nano-ite deep within Batunga’s brain. The Nano-ite spun to life with a low hum. It spurted out 4 little legs and then a head popped out with a couple of feelers. It looked around and realised it was alive. How wonderful it was to be alive! It felt so lucky and grateful that it had been given this opportunity to live. It started making plans in its head as to all the wonderful things it would like to do while alive: visit this place and that, dine on various energy sources, and even perhaps meet a femme Nano-ite and do all sorts of things to her; caress her feelers, rub her abdomen, mount her and then…but before he could imagine the ‘coup de grace’, instructions in its brain switched on and told it that it had a job to perform first. Then it could do all those things.
So, it wriggled its hind quarters, flexed its legs, did a jiggle in the air and then whirred into action. It attached itself to the soft tissue of Batunga’s brain and started reprogramming it; zig zagging around at speeds you couldn’t possibly imagine and rewiring the entire neural architecture. When done, the Nano-ite simply waited, it had done its job and was free. It was happy! A long interesting life awaited it. Deep within its brain another set of instructions switched on. These however instructed the self destruct device implanted within it’s abdomen to detonate. “I knew this was too good to be true” sighed the Nano-ite (what a life eh?) and then evaporated in a microscopic puff of carbon, nitrogen and oxygen.
After the Nano-ite had done its rewiring, Batunga’s brain rebooted and switched on. That’s when he awoke. His eyes flickered like cursors. He blinked. And blinked again. [Tell me something readers]. What if you awoke and found yourself suddenly endowed with the collective memories and experiences of 10,000 people? Their thoughts and life experiences suddenly your own as if you had lived them yourself? You are Tao Sung. You are Newton. You are Bach. You are Ibn Jabeel. You are fluent in a thousand languages and cultures. You are well versed in Martial Arts. You are Sun Tzu. You are Shakespeare. You are Madame Teresa. You are the proletariat. You are the farmer tilling the fields. You are the looser in the club. You are the skinny model gracing vogue. You are the killer on death row. You are the herder tending the goats. You are the dying child and also the mother. You are …you are…one
“Did you come here for forgiveness?
Have you come to raise the dead?
Did you come here to play Jesus?
With the leopards in your head?”
Batunga stood and looked up. The stars were still blazing away; a billion thermonuclear spheres of lurid apocalyptic hues. For the first time in his life it was all clear now. His lips curled and he smiled an all knowing smile, raised his hands and scooped a bit of sky; playing with the glinting specks in his hands and letting them slip through his fingers like sand. He could see the threads binding the heavens together; and he could pluck them and feel the reverberations echo in his ears. He could navigate effortlessly through the slipstream of history; frolic like a child in the flotsam and jetsam of the Laws of Physics. He could see the equations and patterns inherent in nature. He could see ‘Pi’ in Cumulus clouds, in the veins of the trees and in the audible frequencies of insects. He could see past present and future with clarity. It was all clear now. He knew.
He looked at the silhouette of the Kapookoo tree, as it stood amidst a backdrop of fading crimson sun; its circular form vaporising into a sea of ochre. He looked at the sky again and then turned his head slowly towards Oombongo. He smiled. It was time to head back. His wife would be getting worried. Or more likely wondering where the f**k he had gotten too and whether he had finally fell in some godforsaken crevice.
In Oombongo, the mangy flea-bitten dog finally started chasing the cat that had been bothering it all day. The dog had found a piece of evil looking meat at the back of the butchers in the morning; bone and all, and had buried it. Unfortunately for the dog, the cat had seen him bury it and was not budging from where it lay in the bushes a few feet away. The dog’s snarling and toothsome expressions were not working on the cat; it was not taking the hint. The dog finally flipped and the cat darted like lightning thorough the gap in the fence, just managing to squeeze through in time, it’s skinny, furless body helping its escape somewhat. It ran towards the lazy bums swigging warm beer under the tree, rubbed itself along one of their legs and then curled up in the corner and went to sleep. It was getting dark but still light enough to make out people. The lazy bums we’re engaged in animated banter on a subject close to their hearts and pockets; the stingy Indian shopkeeper and how he had tricked them off some money; what a miser he was; and what they would like to do to him. The shopkeeper was just opposite so he could hear there constant sniping and sniggering and see their bony fingers pointing accusingly.
The fact that the shopkeeper was an Indian didn’t help matters in this country of Bantus. Raja Pindu – his family had come to this country, 50 years ago, they were resourceful, hard-working (aren’t they all) and stuck together. They had flourished in a country of lazy Africans and had done well; to the chagrin of the local population who always eyed them up with suspicion and accused them of robbing the community, having a secret stash of cash hidden under the shop boards and eating their own little children to save money. The truth as always was that they were jealous. Jealousy is perhaps the most obnoxious of human traits; for it derives solely from the insecurities of others. And Raja Pindu knew very well what it was like to be at the receiving end of irrational jealousy. Human emotions are never rational.
Batunga Knoboo knew this very well too. He approached the lazy bums under the tree, stood there for a while looking around and finally said something.
“Good evening Gentlemen?” he said in an accent that was not unlike Estuary English…
The drunken lazy bums suddenly went silent, looked at each other, and then broke into a cackle of howling laughter; slapping their thighs, wiping their damp eyes, all the while trying to stop themselves from spilling their drinks and pissing their pants. They cheekily offered him a bottle.
All the while Batunga stood still. His lips curled at the edges in an enigmatic smile; a wry and all knowing look on his face. You could almost see star trails in the folds of his skin and his eyes were as radiant and as ancient as the stars themselves…
(To be continued...)
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Adventures of Knob Man - Episode 1
Episode 1 – Oombongo (birthplace of a legend)
Deep in the African rift valley; the cradle of civilization itself and the bosom of mankind, lies the little shanty town of ‘Oombongo’. An ordinary and fairly non descript shanty town with the prerequisite cardboard dwellings; with flaking walls, weeds growing through the roof and miniature vegetable gardens out front growing a pathetic array of garden vegetables; from skinny dry fruits and wickedly nasty bulb roots; black and pot-marked with disease and strife. Ooombongo is a town with a fairly typical sun-hardened populace of the usual pesky urchins, naked, children demanding money for food, and the infinitely lazy, lazy-bums that sit in the shade all day, dreaming up their next get rich quick schemes, or thinking how best they can rob their grandmothers. Bloody no gooders!
So a fairly average African town then, but for one small detail. On the northernmost point of this stinking shit hole sits a little hut. Not by any means a special hut or anything; just your average hut really. However, what distinguishes this particular hut from the others that line Oombongo, and the myriads that sweep across the African planes, is who lives inside. Batunga Knoboo, for that is his name is, as his wife would put it, an old fart and an idiot. But he is widely known as the Shamen (witch doctor) of Oombongo. More like a con artist if you ask me. He’s a do it all and a fix it all; problems with your ears? Batunga will sort em out, nasty boil growing up your bum? Batunga will poke it out? Radio don’t work? Batunga will…well you get my jist.
Batunga shares his little hut with his long suffering wife ‘Kacoooi’. They’ve been married now for 9 years and things have been going down hill from the start. ‘Marriage is made in heaven’ her parent used to tell her. But now, 9 years on, the deep creases on her face; creases as large as the rift valley itself speak volumes and hint at the deep feelings and resentment simmering inside. “Why don’t you get a f***ing propaar job you lazy F***er” she would say to him in Bantu. Sometimes as often as 20 times in a single day. Not that night and day mean much to Batunga; who seems to spend most part of his waking life in a dreamy haze of purple butterflies and day-glow rainbows (courtesy of some magic weed). Ever since he was a little child, Batunga was a bit of a fantasist. He’d spend inordinate amounts of time, sometimes as much as 88% of it, in another reality; floating in some make-believe world of his own devising.
But things are about to change for Batunga Knoboo. Change forever…As he sits on a nearby hill, his legs crossed, eyes closed, and mind in a deep reverie; a light breeze awakens and begins to rustle the leaves in the nearby ‘Kapookoo’ tree. A little bird begins a serenade and chips and chirps; it’s jizz for life infusing the air with a thousand little syncopated sound waves; like little bubbles of sound that twinggggggg the air drums. Then, in the distance, from the adjoining hill a shadow appears, followed by dust that dances like fire-flies raised by the feet of the followers; the procession is about to enter Oombongo and Batunga can smell his destiny…his eyes suddenly flick open like beams…
To be continued...
Deep in the African rift valley; the cradle of civilization itself and the bosom of mankind, lies the little shanty town of ‘Oombongo’. An ordinary and fairly non descript shanty town with the prerequisite cardboard dwellings; with flaking walls, weeds growing through the roof and miniature vegetable gardens out front growing a pathetic array of garden vegetables; from skinny dry fruits and wickedly nasty bulb roots; black and pot-marked with disease and strife. Ooombongo is a town with a fairly typical sun-hardened populace of the usual pesky urchins, naked, children demanding money for food, and the infinitely lazy, lazy-bums that sit in the shade all day, dreaming up their next get rich quick schemes, or thinking how best they can rob their grandmothers. Bloody no gooders!
So a fairly average African town then, but for one small detail. On the northernmost point of this stinking shit hole sits a little hut. Not by any means a special hut or anything; just your average hut really. However, what distinguishes this particular hut from the others that line Oombongo, and the myriads that sweep across the African planes, is who lives inside. Batunga Knoboo, for that is his name is, as his wife would put it, an old fart and an idiot. But he is widely known as the Shamen (witch doctor) of Oombongo. More like a con artist if you ask me. He’s a do it all and a fix it all; problems with your ears? Batunga will sort em out, nasty boil growing up your bum? Batunga will poke it out? Radio don’t work? Batunga will…well you get my jist.
Batunga shares his little hut with his long suffering wife ‘Kacoooi’. They’ve been married now for 9 years and things have been going down hill from the start. ‘Marriage is made in heaven’ her parent used to tell her. But now, 9 years on, the deep creases on her face; creases as large as the rift valley itself speak volumes and hint at the deep feelings and resentment simmering inside. “Why don’t you get a f***ing propaar job you lazy F***er” she would say to him in Bantu. Sometimes as often as 20 times in a single day. Not that night and day mean much to Batunga; who seems to spend most part of his waking life in a dreamy haze of purple butterflies and day-glow rainbows (courtesy of some magic weed). Ever since he was a little child, Batunga was a bit of a fantasist. He’d spend inordinate amounts of time, sometimes as much as 88% of it, in another reality; floating in some make-believe world of his own devising.
But things are about to change for Batunga Knoboo. Change forever…As he sits on a nearby hill, his legs crossed, eyes closed, and mind in a deep reverie; a light breeze awakens and begins to rustle the leaves in the nearby ‘Kapookoo’ tree. A little bird begins a serenade and chips and chirps; it’s jizz for life infusing the air with a thousand little syncopated sound waves; like little bubbles of sound that twinggggggg the air drums. Then, in the distance, from the adjoining hill a shadow appears, followed by dust that dances like fire-flies raised by the feet of the followers; the procession is about to enter Oombongo and Batunga can smell his destiny…his eyes suddenly flick open like beams…
To be continued...
Episode 2 - The Continuing Adventures of Knob Man
Episode 2 – Batunga meets God
…And so it was that Batunga Knoboo found himself sitting atop a sun-baked hilltop, somewhere deep within the African hinterland; legs crossed, eyes shut, relaxed and swimming in a sea of his own consciousness. He was navigating the many channels and tributaries that his memory had carved out; picking up long forgotten mementoes that would suddenly kick-start a train of memories. Batunga Knoboo, the nerdy kid with the big afro who everybody picked on in school. The shy and insecure kid too scared to approach girls in case he pissed his pants or worst still if he got a hard-on. His mind floated above the landscape of his memories; he remembered the time when he had once developed an almighty crush on a girl in his English class; her name was, surprisingly, Cookie. A sweet little thing she was too, slender frame, pert little breasts, a certain walk (equivalent to the peacocks tail) that left tongues wagging and eye sockets empty with their contents in the ceiling, and then she had those eyes; these sultry eyes that sucked you in and could drown a 1,000 men. Just looking into those dark eyes would leave a man defenceless. Every morning, before school, Batunga would pump himself up into a mental mindset as follows:
“Ok if I see her in school, I’m just gonna walk pass as if she’s not there. Just gonna walk pass. My mind is elsewhere. I see nothing. I hear nothing. Feel nothing. Like the wind I will float by…like the wind I will disappear. Like the wind I will be gone…”
This mantra he’d repeat to himself on his way to school everyday. And what would actually happen?
He’d see her advancing towards him from the other end of the corridor. Her frame swaying in slow motion like branches in the breeze, her smile lighting up everything it fell on, her hips swaying and those eyes like a black hole of the soul. As she approached, Batunga’s control over his bodily functions would start to deteriorate. His arms were usually the first to go, not knowing what to do they’d start swaying around like pendulums; knocking over anything within radius. His knees were usually next, becoming weak and unable to carry the weight above, they’d start buckling under the strain, leaving him with a limp and awkward walk. Then his eyes-balls would start doing funny things; tumbling and swivelling around his sockets like billiard balls, then his pores would suddenly snap open releasing a deluge of sweat that would start working its way down from his brow; his cheeks a-flush, his tongue lolling around like an suffocating eel and his spit cappuccino’d into a soapy lather that would start dripping down his mouth. Not a pleasant sight. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he was having a fit.
But the worst thing was that she never even noticed him. Never even noticed him! Never even noticed him turn into a human Cappuccino machine! This used to keep Batunga awake at night and he would mull over it over and over again. I mean, yeah it’s a good thing she never noticed him turning into a palpitating foam ball, but (and there is a but) how much it would have meant if she did notice him! Because if she noticed him it meant he would forever be imprinted inside her sweet little brain. Just being a memory inside her brain was enough; even if it was just “yeah, I remember Batunga, he’s the weird bloke with the foaming mouth and stringy walk” – At least he’d made an impact and had imprinted himself forever in her memory banks! But no! He couldn’t even manage that…
So, as Batunga sat on the lonely hilltop; the midget flies orbiting the dome of his head like satellites, the bird still wallowing away on the nearby Kapookoo tree and the shadows stretching like cling-film as the Great Orb in the sky descended behind the horizon; something really strange happened. Out of nowhere a divine ‘hand’ of some sort started prodding his head. He could feel it knocking on his skull. Knock-Knock. Knock-Knock. “Anybody home?” a deep voice boomed and echoed. The hand plucked Batunga out of his deep sojourn, disentangling him from the dream webs that we’re still attached and sat him down on a stool. This was awfully strange even for Batunga. “What the heck’s going on” he heard himself think
“Ahem” There was a little clearing of the throat
“Hi!” said the divine voice.
“Erm…let me introduce myself. I’m God. Ta-da!” - The little flourish at the end only served to further confuse Batunga
The divine voice of God continued. “Yes, I was afraid that this would happen. These introductions always tend to be shocking experiences. You see, I’ve tried to make them less shocking but to no avail. I’ve been practicing how I would greet you. Initially I thought perhaps I should start with a joke or something, you know just to break the ice; like “how do you stop an African man dancing in a club? – Answer: Put Velcro everywhere – Hahaha!”
Batunga looked on, not at all impressed with God’s little joke.
“And then I realised that telling a joke would not be appropriate as a way of introduction, so I should stick with something more formal. Anyway, here I am! I am god! I gather you’ve been dying to meet me. dying – hahaha-snort!!”
Batunga looked on, perplexed as ever. ”If this guy is God, he’s a total twat” he thought
“Can I ask you a little question?” asked God
Batunga gave a slow little nod.
“Ok, what do you think of my accent?” said God sheepishly
Batunga looked on, mortified with the question
God continued.
“Well the reason I ask is that as God I had a wide selection of accents to choose from. You know there was Mandarin (too tinny), Australian (too common), Indian (too willing to obey - Yes Sir!, Jee Sir!), American (too dumb and inbred), South African (too guttural). In the end it came down to Cockney English, Scottish or Thames Estuary. As you can tell I’ve selected Thames Estuary; I think Cockney English would have been a little risqué ‘Na a mean geez?! – Hahahaha!’
Batunga never twitched a muscle. Still too shocked at what he was witnessing.
“I think as God, I have to choose an accent that would convey my superiority over animal, vegetable and mineral; an accent that would be commanding, dominant, easy to understand and warm. I think I’ve succeeded don’t you think?” Said God looking for some reassurance.
Batunga nodded an unceretain little nod.
“Oh, and remind me, after we’re done I’m gonna hand you a little form I’d like you to fill out. Just a little feedback form on what you thought of my introduction and where you think there’s room for improvement. I think even God needs constructive feedback. Hahaha – snort!”
“Anyway here’s the deal” and then god started whispering into Batunga’s ears. He started filling his mind with what he wanted Batunga to do...
As God continued whispering and the plan un-folded, the Orb of the sun reddened to Cranberry and then smashed itself to millions of little shards on the horizon, the bird on the Kapookoo tree gave up it’s incessant warbling and flitted off to bother someone else and the billions of stars attached to the dome of the sky smiled down upon Batunga. A smile that said “We are yours now”…
To be continued…
…And so it was that Batunga Knoboo found himself sitting atop a sun-baked hilltop, somewhere deep within the African hinterland; legs crossed, eyes shut, relaxed and swimming in a sea of his own consciousness. He was navigating the many channels and tributaries that his memory had carved out; picking up long forgotten mementoes that would suddenly kick-start a train of memories. Batunga Knoboo, the nerdy kid with the big afro who everybody picked on in school. The shy and insecure kid too scared to approach girls in case he pissed his pants or worst still if he got a hard-on. His mind floated above the landscape of his memories; he remembered the time when he had once developed an almighty crush on a girl in his English class; her name was, surprisingly, Cookie. A sweet little thing she was too, slender frame, pert little breasts, a certain walk (equivalent to the peacocks tail) that left tongues wagging and eye sockets empty with their contents in the ceiling, and then she had those eyes; these sultry eyes that sucked you in and could drown a 1,000 men. Just looking into those dark eyes would leave a man defenceless. Every morning, before school, Batunga would pump himself up into a mental mindset as follows:
“Ok if I see her in school, I’m just gonna walk pass as if she’s not there. Just gonna walk pass. My mind is elsewhere. I see nothing. I hear nothing. Feel nothing. Like the wind I will float by…like the wind I will disappear. Like the wind I will be gone…”
This mantra he’d repeat to himself on his way to school everyday. And what would actually happen?
He’d see her advancing towards him from the other end of the corridor. Her frame swaying in slow motion like branches in the breeze, her smile lighting up everything it fell on, her hips swaying and those eyes like a black hole of the soul. As she approached, Batunga’s control over his bodily functions would start to deteriorate. His arms were usually the first to go, not knowing what to do they’d start swaying around like pendulums; knocking over anything within radius. His knees were usually next, becoming weak and unable to carry the weight above, they’d start buckling under the strain, leaving him with a limp and awkward walk. Then his eyes-balls would start doing funny things; tumbling and swivelling around his sockets like billiard balls, then his pores would suddenly snap open releasing a deluge of sweat that would start working its way down from his brow; his cheeks a-flush, his tongue lolling around like an suffocating eel and his spit cappuccino’d into a soapy lather that would start dripping down his mouth. Not a pleasant sight. If you didn’t know any better you’d say he was having a fit.
But the worst thing was that she never even noticed him. Never even noticed him! Never even noticed him turn into a human Cappuccino machine! This used to keep Batunga awake at night and he would mull over it over and over again. I mean, yeah it’s a good thing she never noticed him turning into a palpitating foam ball, but (and there is a but) how much it would have meant if she did notice him! Because if she noticed him it meant he would forever be imprinted inside her sweet little brain. Just being a memory inside her brain was enough; even if it was just “yeah, I remember Batunga, he’s the weird bloke with the foaming mouth and stringy walk” – At least he’d made an impact and had imprinted himself forever in her memory banks! But no! He couldn’t even manage that…
So, as Batunga sat on the lonely hilltop; the midget flies orbiting the dome of his head like satellites, the bird still wallowing away on the nearby Kapookoo tree and the shadows stretching like cling-film as the Great Orb in the sky descended behind the horizon; something really strange happened. Out of nowhere a divine ‘hand’ of some sort started prodding his head. He could feel it knocking on his skull. Knock-Knock. Knock-Knock. “Anybody home?” a deep voice boomed and echoed. The hand plucked Batunga out of his deep sojourn, disentangling him from the dream webs that we’re still attached and sat him down on a stool. This was awfully strange even for Batunga. “What the heck’s going on” he heard himself think
“Ahem” There was a little clearing of the throat
“Hi!” said the divine voice.
“Erm…let me introduce myself. I’m God. Ta-da!” - The little flourish at the end only served to further confuse Batunga
The divine voice of God continued. “Yes, I was afraid that this would happen. These introductions always tend to be shocking experiences. You see, I’ve tried to make them less shocking but to no avail. I’ve been practicing how I would greet you. Initially I thought perhaps I should start with a joke or something, you know just to break the ice; like “how do you stop an African man dancing in a club? – Answer: Put Velcro everywhere – Hahaha!”
Batunga looked on, not at all impressed with God’s little joke.
“And then I realised that telling a joke would not be appropriate as a way of introduction, so I should stick with something more formal. Anyway, here I am! I am god! I gather you’ve been dying to meet me. dying – hahaha-snort!!”
Batunga looked on, perplexed as ever. ”If this guy is God, he’s a total twat” he thought
“Can I ask you a little question?” asked God
Batunga gave a slow little nod.
“Ok, what do you think of my accent?” said God sheepishly
Batunga looked on, mortified with the question
God continued.
“Well the reason I ask is that as God I had a wide selection of accents to choose from. You know there was Mandarin (too tinny), Australian (too common), Indian (too willing to obey - Yes Sir!, Jee Sir!), American (too dumb and inbred), South African (too guttural). In the end it came down to Cockney English, Scottish or Thames Estuary. As you can tell I’ve selected Thames Estuary; I think Cockney English would have been a little risqué ‘Na a mean geez?! – Hahahaha!’
Batunga never twitched a muscle. Still too shocked at what he was witnessing.
“I think as God, I have to choose an accent that would convey my superiority over animal, vegetable and mineral; an accent that would be commanding, dominant, easy to understand and warm. I think I’ve succeeded don’t you think?” Said God looking for some reassurance.
Batunga nodded an unceretain little nod.
“Oh, and remind me, after we’re done I’m gonna hand you a little form I’d like you to fill out. Just a little feedback form on what you thought of my introduction and where you think there’s room for improvement. I think even God needs constructive feedback. Hahaha – snort!”
“Anyway here’s the deal” and then god started whispering into Batunga’s ears. He started filling his mind with what he wanted Batunga to do...
As God continued whispering and the plan un-folded, the Orb of the sun reddened to Cranberry and then smashed itself to millions of little shards on the horizon, the bird on the Kapookoo tree gave up it’s incessant warbling and flitted off to bother someone else and the billions of stars attached to the dome of the sky smiled down upon Batunga. A smile that said “We are yours now”…
To be continued…
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Coming soon...Guatemala - A Mayan Adventure
I've managed to secure lodging with a family of Mayan farmers in the remote Highland region of Guatemala. I will be living and sleeping amongst them observing how they go about their everyday lives; tilling the fields, raising the cattle and chasing the chickens. The aim is to document how people in remote regions live and the everyday hardships they face and how their lives interact with the outside modern world. How have the shifting tides of globalisation affected these people I wonder? Life is a struggle for most of humanity, but why is it a struggle and why should it be the status quo?
Language will be a problem, especially in the highlands, so will need an interpreter. But the fotografs will be the canvass I will use to paint the window that looks into their lives.
Equipment: again as basic as possible, a couple of lenses (50mm prime and 16-35 wide angle) and of course my trusted 'moleskine' journal. An adventure indeed...
"Did i waste it?
not so much i couldn't taste it
life should be fragrant
rooftop to the basement"
(Kite - Bono, U2)
Language will be a problem, especially in the highlands, so will need an interpreter. But the fotografs will be the canvass I will use to paint the window that looks into their lives.
Equipment: again as basic as possible, a couple of lenses (50mm prime and 16-35 wide angle) and of course my trusted 'moleskine' journal. An adventure indeed...
"Did i waste it?
not so much i couldn't taste it
life should be fragrant
rooftop to the basement"
(Kite - Bono, U2)
Sunday, March 11, 2007
'Trash' - anthem of the disaffected
Maybe, maybe it's the clothes we wear,
The tasteless bracelets and the dye in our hair,
Maybe it's our kookiness,
Or maybe, maybe it's our nowhere towns,
Our nothing places and our cellophane sounds,
Maybe it's our looseness,
But we're trash, you and me,
We're the litter on the breeze,
We're the lovers on the streets,
Just trash, me and you,
It's in everything we do,
It's in everything we do...
Maybe, maybe it's the things we say,
The words we've heard and the music we play,
Maybe it's our cheapness,
Or maybe, maybe it's the times we've had,
The lazy days and the crazes and the fads,
Maybe it's our sweetness,
But we're trash, you and me,
We're the litter on the breeze,
We're the lovers on the street,
Just trash, me and you,
It's in everything we do,
It's in everything we do...
(Suede)
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