(2003)
There's a rumour of conscription hanging 'round at Number Ten,
But none's been on telly with the how and why and when,
Nonetheless I found I fretted, but only for a while,
And then I started thinking with a slightly crooked smile:
Chorus
Come on then, conscript me, you'll wish you never did,
I'm a can of worms, be my guest, take off the lid,
For war's a game for powermongers, not for folks like me,
And if you force it on me, watch how peaceful I can be.
I'll chat about the havoc war will wreak on people's lives,
And I'll ask who'll tell their girlfriend about raping Muslim wives,
I'll call it Gulf War Syndrome every time I have a cold,
And I'll answer "Whose life is it?" every time I have a cold,
I'll talk so much of bums that all the men will think I'm gay,
But even if you ask I won't be certain either way,
I'll never fail to squeak and jump each time the Sergeant yells,
And I'll never learn to shoot a gun or launch a mortar shell,
I'll rant about the biosphere and how we're all just one,
A living planet powered by the brightness of the sun,
I'll sew patches on my uniform of rainbows, doves and trees,
And I'll skip instead of walking and I'll march with wobbly knees.
But none's been on telly with the how and why and when,
Nonetheless I found I fretted, but only for a while,
And then I started thinking with a slightly crooked smile:
Chorus
Come on then, conscript me, you'll wish you never did,
I'm a can of worms, be my guest, take off the lid,
For war's a game for powermongers, not for folks like me,
And if you force it on me, watch how peaceful I can be.
I'll chat about the havoc war will wreak on people's lives,
And I'll ask who'll tell their girlfriend about raping Muslim wives,
I'll call it Gulf War Syndrome every time I have a cold,
And I'll answer "Whose life is it?" every time I have a cold,
I'll talk so much of bums that all the men will think I'm gay,
But even if you ask I won't be certain either way,
I'll never fail to squeak and jump each time the Sergeant yells,
And I'll never learn to shoot a gun or launch a mortar shell,
I'll rant about the biosphere and how we're all just one,
A living planet powered by the brightness of the sun,
I'll sew patches on my uniform of rainbows, doves and trees,
And I'll skip instead of walking and I'll march with wobbly knees.
Contributed by Riccardo Venturi
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