What's the blame game
What's it all about?

Who wears the badge of shame,
For the problems in this world?
Whose name we gonna name,
For the ills within this world?
Who's gonna take the blame,
For the mess that is this world?

Well, George Bush takes the blame
For the war that's in Iraq,
But who we gonna blame for Bush?
Lets take a quick look back.

Bush was born into this world, the son of a politician;
Or the son of two, to tell it true,
Cause Mummy Bush was playing too,
And the world that Bush grew up to know
Is the world that Bush creates.

His was a world of capital value
Where money's worth much more than you
But where do you think he learnt that from, eh?
That money's worth more than people?
That oil's worth more than you?
That power, and wealth and influence are all that's of value?
Did someone, somewhere, teach him this?
Do we live this?
Do we believe that power and wealth and influence are all that's of value?
Let's go back to Bush.

The life of George Bush Senior
And his lady, Barbara Bush,
Was a world of dinners, socialising,
Endless late nights enterprising,
Sideways looks and double crossing,
Reports, reviews and managed losses.
They had to be there at the political function,
To pull up a pew at the senators luncheon
To take the family on the campaign trail,
To tour the states like redirected mail;
A never ending repartee of breakfasts, lunches and soirees,
That sounds like Heaven 'till you remember,
There ain't no friends on the way to the White House;
There's no time to play Mickey Mouse.

And on that thought, just a small aside:
Is there something wrong with the selection process
By which we put folk into congress?
And I'm not talking about its democraticness;
It's that the amount of work you have to do
Costs you your humanity.
But I guess you'd work that hard, if you were there too,
And the world was obsessed with accountability.

Anyway, the Bushes rose prominence,
When Regans time had been and gone,
The White House was theirs, their dominance,
Was assured when they went to war in '91.
But the hours it took to make it there,
The price they paid to pay their fare,
Who paid that price, and was it fair
That he should pay a price so dear?

When a child is born into this world,
The thing they need the most,
Is loving parents and the time
To spend with them.
That's how a child can learn
To love another in their turn;
I think though Bush went to pricey schools,
And read his books and got the tools
He needed to make it big in the world,
He lost his heart,
He lost his soul,
He lost all the humanity he ever had,
And all because he was tryna impress his demanding mum and dad.

What a fucking stupid point!
That's such a minor deal!
When you look at the bloodshed in Iraq
And drag that dripping bloodshed back
To the way that George Bush feels!
Who gives a fuck how he feels?
Not as bad as the Iraqi's on that we can be sure.

But George Bush isn't just hurt, or lonely or feeling sad,
George Bush has gone fucking mad!
He's insane.
And not in a banging your head against a brick wall in the asylum kinda way;
He's like Lecter,
Like Hitler.
He's a sociopath -
He's without the conception of human emotion,
He has lost his fucking mind.

And why?
Because he's been raised as a hardened tool,
He's been shaped into a political man,
He's been taught: trust no-one or you'll be played for a fool,
But that's a world shaped by all our hands.
A world of pressure, accountability and work, work, more and more work.
He is a shit-head, selfish, inhuman American Psycho
But:
he wasn't born that way.

So who taught George Bush junior,
That Oil's worth more than people?
Oh, Daddy Bush and Mummy Bush,
You got so much to answer for.
Now you take the blame for the Iraqi war.

But now who takes the blame for them?

Now that's another four more names now,
For grandparents who wanted only power;
We've shifted blame, we've spread the blame,
But the blame games getting deeper.

The truth is the reality of blame spreads so thin it's like the surface of the sea;
Trying to evolve in a culture of blame is like trying to cross the Atlantic using nothing but water tension.
And this is why we're sinking.
The capitalist is sick;
The racist is ill;
The rapist needs help;
Though I'm not saying you have to help them all,
For some it's far too late,
(George Bush,)
But if you want to make sure they don't come back
I said if you wanna make sure they don't come back
It's no good just blaming them
You gotta look at the world that made the men,
Look at the world we all live in
And the part we play in creating it.

"It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer sun,
And in the vintage, and to sing on the wagon loaded with corn,
It is an easy thing to speak patience to the afflicted,
Or to speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer;"
It is an easy thing to point the finger of blame at those who wrong us;
To statatise rational hatred to those who are lost or angry or embittered,
Who have made us their enemies in turn.
It is an easy thing to demonise those whose blind anger has turned them blind with hatred
Who seek solace in the strong arm of physical aggression,
Or shelter in the paper houses of banks and corporations.
It is an easy thing to hate those who hate us,
But this is the anger that blinds us,
And turns us, in turn, into those we fought against.

If fear is a force we must resist,
We must not fear,
Or give cause to fear.
If blame is a core that rots from within,
We must not blame,
But offer and share a shoulder of blame,
And sometimes we have to take more;
Cause you blame someone else,
And sooner or later,
You too are gonna go to war.