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Bertie's Brochures
The Fatima Mansions
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Lyrics
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August the 20th: yes, folks, it's another clammy warm night in England
A large crowd has gathered around the police station
Everybody, everybody, wishes to have contact with a certain little Irish writer within
Not to discuss his works, though the works are known to them; they've been published in the tabloid papers by the police under the heading "Barbaric Butcher's Brochures"
No, they want to tear his very head from his body, for what it is alleged he did in the way of mortal damage to two soldiers in a nearby public lavatory
The night draws in
Nobody would say a word about him, except a fool like me (in his skin)
In rainy Ireland in the 50's
There outside a pink farmhouse door
A small Bertie playing at digging trenches
Asks, "Daddy, what's the blowtorch for?"
He said, "The torch will cut the cars to turn them into sculpture
So I can express what I feel
The college men may laugh
The farmers persecute me
but I do for myself
So should you."
Come look at Bertie's brochures
You'll be enchanted, I am sure
The whole world's in Bertie's brochures
All the wisdom, all the smiles of dear friends
Through freakshow Britain, through the eighties
Bertie works in labs, but his father's aims still endure
Though only at night does he do his real work
Learning, writing his brochures
For he still believes that everyone's a poet
And that all he has to do is to set it down
And so transform the milkman
The waitress and the gunman into immortal art!!
Now they're laughing at Bertie's brochures
Detectives with crowbars and skewers
They see things in Bertie's brochures
Their own hatred of all other races and their fear
Don't laugh at Bertie's brochures
He would not if they were yours
So what if your enemy is there?
Bertie's an artist, so why should he care?
It's the north european peasant experience
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