The Album of Wrath

Although I can't be sure of the date, it's likely the material I wrote for the eventually abandoned "Album Of Wrath" had been completed by late April 2006. The Ill-Fitting Garibaldis' gave rise to my passion for lyric writing and ultimately (if I may be so modest) nourishing my bold talent. The casual observer would never guess all ten tracks were written in a remarkably short period of time, concurrent with the likes of "Dark Church". I still have yet to get round to recording the album, having on multiple occasions considered using the odd-song with The Garibaldis. At the time of writing, Steve Wicked was eager to use them himself! I have no plans to record the tracks currently but who knows, one day perhaps - it would be a shame to let such fine prose go to waste.

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WRATH’S INTRODUCTION

The following album

Is about a sin

The worst of all

Known as “Wrath”

Wrath’s a person

He’s in all of us

But mainly in evil

And this is his story

But there is a tale

To be told

And a message

To be sold

It’s important to know

Wrath is pure evil

And never mix with sinful doings

As it is the equivalent of:

Having intercourse with Wrath

DEVIL’S BIRTH WAS QUICK

Fighting for some respiration

Inside each of my peachy cells

Down there the Devil gives birth

I none of the many, many Hells!

Forgiveness is a very sick man

Whom doth not always flee

Try talking to him with your mouth full

He’ll expose you to the obscene!

The devil’s birth as quick

His mother made the doctors sick

They coughed up phlegm and said:

Christ, your son’s been born dead – little did they know…

The devil’s birth was quick

His life was disguised with tricks

He lead on many a man

And with his friend Wrath raped them

This ain’t the first we’ll hear of Wrath

For did you know he wasn’t partial to a bath

Which leads on to my next point

Wrath loved now and again a good old sneaky joint

The devil’s birth as quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Vomit – vomit – sick-sick-sick!

I like to eat rabbits

While they’re still alive

I listen to trip-hop music

Whilst I fantasise

Courtney Love in dungarees

Smoking herbal trees

In the woods

Watch it burn!

RORY’S NEW GUITAR

Been strumming all my life

Never had a wife!

Turned down relationships

Just to strum my six-string beauty

I got a new guitar

I’m gonna call her Martha II

I gotta new guitar

Strumming her all day long!

Pickin’ here, scrapin’ there

Writing new songs – what a dare!

Strumming Martha’s heartstrings

She’s screaming out my name (Rory!)

Playing her till I drop

She lies in my sweaty hair

Martha lies in my bedroom

But never on the bed

That’s because she’s inanimate

And also quite dead

Yet she still gives me pleasure

Makes my hair stand on end

“Martha, Martha!” I cry out loud

While she makes my body bend

She still gives me pleasure

She still makes me whine

Her stamina’s amazing

To say I’m twiddling her all the time

Then one night however

A snap resounded down her neck

…So I got a new guitar

PLOUGH OF WOOD

You used to live in Texas right?

(Sure I did!)

You used to light the fire right?

(Sure I did!)

Went to summer camp every year?

(Sure I did!)

Encountered many a grisly bear?

(What’s your point?)

I once saw a plough!

That was made of wood!

Can you even believe it?

Plough of a wood!

You used to visit pensioners right?

(Sure I did!)

You used to own a yellow kite?

(Sure I did!)

You drank Ribena since the age of four?

(Sure I did!)

You’ve cut down a tree to make a door?

(Who hasn’t?)

I’m your mate

We’ll play games

Fun and laughter

Party people!

Loving animals

Pets and people

World peace

I love you

How can I express my love to you?

Other than in words

Or perhaps by using the metaphor:

Plough of wood!

I’VE ALWAYS SEEN THE WEST RUN IN THIS LAND

Why does the west always run?

While the east tries to hide

Forget about the north

Go south and jump inside

Feelings cough-up strange emotions

Cowboy films after dark

I’m feeling strongly

For your whole being, baby

I’ve always seen the west run in this land

Whilst the east just sits alone

You think a man will ever be born,

Who can unite the two in harmony?

Sensing, bridges

Falling, ridges

The cake burns in the oven

As I listen to this unfinished symphony

Why does the west always run?

While the east tries to hide

I’ve always seen the west run in this land

North, south, east, west – bow down!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

That’s the end of this story…

WHEN THE MUSIC DON’T WORK (BLAME AN ELF)

You know the feeling you get

Whilst roaming the magic woods?

Magic mushrooms are your path

You feel an real-high rush

You know your feet are on the ground

But you can see for miles!

And then you try to sing, it comes out all wrong!

Time to blame an elf…

When the music don’t work – blame an elf!

When the music don’t work – blame an elf!

When the music don’t work – blame an elf!

Or, even, do it yourself

This is my song and I wanna sing it loud

I wanna tell everyone I’m Scottish and proud!

So what if I didn’t grow up there,

So what if I don’t have ginger hair,

I know where my roots are… and that is:

Scotland

This is my song and I wanna sing it loud

I wanna tell everyone I’m Scottish and proud!

So what if you don’t like this song

Blame an elf why don’t you, you silly cow

I know where my roots are… and that is:

Scotland

You know the feeling you get

Whilst roaming the magic woods?

Magic mushrooms are your path

You feel an real-high rush

You know your feet are on the ground

But you can see for miles!

And then you try to sing, it comes out all wrong!

Time to blame an elf…

THIS REALLY IS A WILD WORLD

I’m a cowboy, shovel the dung

Life is hard, ain’t always fun

Luckily I got Shelley

The biggest girl in Kentucky

Every night, go for a fight…

On the olde, olde fields of

Alabama! This is a wild, wild world, in

Alabama! Living on this farm

Alabama! Just me and my big breasted Shelley

Alabama! Rearing pigs for life!

Living in the wild- wild west

Kentucky to the east, Alabama to the west

I’m a cowboy from the south

My Shelley came from the west

The west is clearly the best

Best, best, west-west-west

CHRISTMAS WITH WRATH (THE WORST PARTY IN TINSELTOWN)

Once a year, on the twenty-fifth

Santa comes down, gives us gifts

But there’s one house, he’ll always miss

‘Cos in that house lives wrath!

Wrath, Wrath, evil personified

Even Christmas don’t save his soul

He’s the evilest thing alive!

Wrath, Wrath, Santa’s enemy

He gives gifts if you’re good

But every year, from Wrath he doth flee

In his house there ain’t no tree

No lights, gifts or tinsel

Wrath detests all that’s good

That’s why the police gave him a criminal record;

To keep him away from kids

If Wrath touches them they’ll be sinned

Imagine Wrath was Midas

Then all he touched would be black

Opposed to gold.

He lives in Tinseltown

He wins the “evil crown”

Wrath ain’t a fan of Slade

Buy him a monicle and be his slave

WRATH!

Yeah…

WRATH’S REPRISE

So, you think you know Wrath?

Several songs can’t just sum him up

One more thing has to be done…

One more song to make Wrath’s feelings clear

To help you understand what he’s all about

Don’t be surprised if what you learn now shocks,

You may feel the urge to scream and shout

As I foretold, Wrath’s story is not pretty

For all he touches turns to black,

This makes going to the toilet very inconvenient

So without further-a-do,

I introduce to you,

The Ten Commandments of Wrath!

You have been warned!

THE TENTH COMMANDMENT OF WRATH

Wrath! Wrath! Wrath! Wrath!

Singing about Wrath,

In and out of the bath

This ain’t no black mass

But we’re talking about Wrath!

Wrath is the thing that keeps children awake

Dreaming of sin that only they can make;

In the night Wrath touches them deep,

Gives them all his evil – to keep

Wrath has no remorse – he’ll eat up a horse

He’s personified by evil that we don’t endorse

Wrath’s commandments are simple:

To kill and mame!

Wrath will rape your children

They’ll never be the same!

One: death

Two: kill

Three: eat

Four: dare

Five: cry

Six: play guitar

Seven: die quickly

Eight: rape!

By the time you get to nine,

Wrath has committed the crime

Of the tenth commandment which is…

CANNABALISM!

"Portrait of Society"

My very first poem was written especially for The Ill-Fitting Garibaldis' debut album, An Angel Called Lucifer. Possibly conceived as early as February when the three bandmembers - myself, Steve Wicked and David Picklesworth - planned out three initial albums to kick start writing and give an immediate sense of direction. Third project "The Bittersweet Biscuit Rock Opera" never saw the light of day, "An Angel Called Lucifer" and Hard Rock Hotel both came to pass however by the end of 2006.

As part of my online archiving this is the first time I have typed up "Portrait of Society". I've corrected several spelling errors, formatting remains the same, as do footnotes. Without wanting to analyse my own work - that's the readers job after-all! - I would like to pass-on some feedback I have received over the past few years.

"Moving and frankly too close to home."  D. Picklesworth

"... this man speaks truths!"  E. Sedgwick 

"For all those who argue one must have a passion for reading before picking up the pen to write: explain Rory McButt's talent; he detests reading yet writes with the insight, grace and subtlety of Paul the Apostle himself. Take that atheists."  R. Parsley  

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The End Of The Album Is Here

The end, a bullet of pain.
Can pierce the heart with one shot
Like a flaming burst of passion.
Scolded in the fire of doom
Men and beasts have been to show
Hell hath no fury
Calling, an electronic lathe.
Metal on metal.
Biscuits and cheese.
Decomposing bodies call me,
Flash back: school dinner, argh! Killed!
Death in one black image of a swan.
Birds. Animals. Biscuits and cheese.
The end.
How we feel. Called upon the cross
Of whom hath died before me.
When they nailed my pimpelled ass
to the cross. They got the wrong man.
Jesus goes not by the belovéd name
But by Jésūs – hey dude can I borrow
your crowbar? He's a thief.
A beggar. A stealer of the poor.
Crucified - been there done that.
Got the blood stained T-shirt.
At least in the 'book', He died.
Whilst the World breeded, I suffered.
A lamb to the slaughter.
Hailed as one who did not do.
A sinner. Failure. Bloody bathtime –
For babies. Mwahahah.
My only friend was on the screen.
A girl of twelve who turned out to be
A man.
Grey hair. Wrinkles. Evil glare.
I wasn't expecting this to be my
Birthday present. Scorned.
Hands – ow! Not there! It burns.
A hole where once my glands did sit.
The end.
Falling down a well.
Alice. That was her name.
She was a he. He was not a she.
The she she promised to be,
Was not a she but a he.
A he – she? What? She is no she.
A decrepit old man  –
Where did the 40 years come from.
Bulging veins. Repulsing. Vomit.
The end.
Would it come? Something was coming
And it wasn't the end.
The man was off me. A night of red.
Blood stains the white sheets.
No longer pure, no longer innocent.
Church closing soon. Ask the priest.
The same priest who was my Alice?
I burned the priest.
Look where that got me.
Up here on this oh-so sacred cross.
A sheep to the alter.
Stuff this hoof down your Jewish throat!
Call me an antichrist?
I am the anti-antichrist. Christ?
Me? A sermon. Probably.
The end.
An afterlife? I pray not.
I want to die. Be it painful.
So it be. A punishment for my sins.
I was me who dived into Alice's well.
One long night. Dirty hands.
Stained bedsheets. Red, black, red!
My priest Alice lay there kissing
The pentagram of my chest.
'Go home'
But mother will see.
'So it be.'
And that's when Lucifer came.
The end.
Mocked on my cross. Stoned.
The devil has no part in this.
What I did was worse.
Blasphemy, heresy, sodomy
Jesus Christ? No aunties here!
Nazi! Crawling from cell.
People worship. My only pain is not dying.
So let the people worship!
I own the church!
What remains of it. As sinned as hell.
They fear themselves and blame me.
A civil servant to Satan and the Pope.
I was there. I saw it all.
Intercourse between the pope and Beelzebub.
A hole in the statue of St. Lucifer?
Yep. The Pope.
The end.
Condemned for my beliefs.
In the Popes private chapel,
It's me on the crucifix.
Bleeding sin on all the desk.
Shut up! Stop! No! This is my turn.
Two minds. Me. The Messiah.
The real me comes out now.
No!
Stop? Why?
Spread the word through force.
A Nazi angel? More like:
An Angel Called Lucifer.
That's me. I'm that Angel.
I'm that Messiah. I'm the one who
Causes wars. Fire. Death.
Words spread about me,
But the word is false.
A traitor. Sins of the fathers.
They who taught me, now teach you.
Go forth. Plunge into the well.
The end.
No it isn't, there never will be
Until one day the World realises
One thing.
One thing to prove religions false,
One thing to condemn the priests
And politics of this World.
One thing to make me like you,
You like him. A pawn.
Wars aren't about enemies,
They're about religion.
Until now. At the end.
This is the thing that will change.
All that has gone before is...


Rory McButt – Portrait of Society.
(Please don't steal my poem, it took months to write and is special to me)