The shock turns to awe as we're watching the news,
When we're presented with two not dissimilar views
We must make up our minds to the one we will choose,
And we don't know that both will be lighting the fuse
Which leads straight across to the old middle east,
All the time waving a white banner of peace.
Killing all beneath a white banner of peace.

We see the lit fuse as it snakes on its way,
But we sit dumbfounded and with nothing to say,
No words for our brothers with their lives torn apart,
Because we're told it's not patriotic when we show them our hearts,
We don't see our families are becoming slaves,
And we cry, as our children join their frontline graves.
And we don't cry out, as our children join their frontline graves.

The Right bought the might and enlisted the Left,
And the Left sold what's right and intertwined with the rest,
The two turned into one when our backs were turned,
And the bonesmen danced as our freedom burned.

We sleep so healthy and we favour the rich
And we allow the wealthy to have fun with The Switch,
As they fill up our heads with all their diamonds and cars,
And their fame, and paying off some of time's scars
And while we're absorbing all these sense stimulations
They're putting a price on the souls of our nations.
They are imposing a price on the souls of our nations.

Our mouths heals shut as our eyes cry for more,
More contests and trivia than ever before,
Which all turn more important than the lives we once swore
Couldn't ever be lost but our heads start to feel sore
As recognition starts tapping hard on our brains:
And we realise this pain was all for our gain.
And we realise all the pain they feel is all for our gain.

The Right bought the might and enlisted the Left,
And the Left sold what's right and intertwined with the rest,
The two turned into one when our backs were turned,
And the bonesmen danced as our freedom burned.

Won't you please think for a moment, not of those who are close,
Or the ones who you think that you might miss the most,
Please start thinking of those you never knew,
Who work night and day to make clothes for you,
In conditions we could never believe to be true,
They're sweating away their whole lives, just for you.
Bleeding and sweating away their whole lives, just for you.

A child most likely did sew up our shoes,
And our jackets, and our jeans, and the t-shirts we choose,
A small child who could never have warm milk for bed,
And who never had sugarplums dance through her head,
But surely when there are just twenty-four to the day,
Is it really that wrong to make each hour pay?
Can it really be wrong to make each hour pay?

The Right bought the might and enlisted the Left,
And the Left sold what's right and intertwined with the rest,
The two turned into one when our backs were turned,
And the bonesmen danced as our freedom burned.

Now won't you think of women who work night and day,
Who are unable to dream of advancing their pay,
In chains all across our civilised world,
Helplessly watching what's about to unfurl,
How did this happen, why did we comply?
And when did we let all this bullshit slip by?
And when and how did I let all this bullshit slip by?

At exactly which point did we all cease to care,
And what twisted non-logic makes these things seem fair?
The paranoia chokes as we sit playing with buttons,
Waving flags, marching crosses, and encouraging the gluttons,
The red white and blue is tinting our eyes,
And guarding us from truth, like a Cerberus for lies.
Protecting us from truth, like a Cerberus for lies.

The Right bought the might and enlisted the Left,
And the Left sold what's right and intertwined with the rest,
The two turned into one when our backs were turned,
And the bonesmen danced as our freedom burned.

Yes, I Have A Penis

Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.

Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
you're paying.

Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.

- an Ode to Lancaster University

Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of 2005,
use Sparknotes.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future,
Sparknotes would be it.
The long-term benefits of Sparknotes have been proven by my exam grades,
whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.
I will dispense this advice now:

Enjoy the power and beauty of your first year,
oh never mind,
you will never understand the power and the beauty of your first year until the third.
But trust me, in two years,
you will look at the new selection of freshers and recall in a way you can't grasp now,
how much possibility lay before you and how little work you actually had to do.
Reading the full text is not as important as you imagine.
Don't worry about essay deadlines,
know that deadlines are only affective when the tutor's a fascist.
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind.
The kind that blindside you by announcing that you're out of cash at 4 PM on some idle Tuesday.
Do one thing every day that scares you, like washing up.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other peoples' genitals;
don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on firsts,
sometimes you're ahead,
sometimes you're behind,
the race is long and in the end,
it's only with yourself.
Remember the passes you receive,
forget the fails.
If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old condom wrappers;
throw away your unopened bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what to do with your life.
Most of the people telling you what to do didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives,
most of them at 60 will still be telling other people what to do.
Get plenty of intoxicants.
Be kind to your kitchen reps,
you'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll get laid,
maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll have countless strings of bitches,
maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll get drunk in the morning,
maybe you'll dance the "Funky Chicken" dressed as a pirate on a Thursday night.
Whatever you do,
don't buy half pints,
or buy them for anyone else either.
You need complete pints when you're drinking,
so does everybody else.
Enjoy your college.
Use it every way you can,
don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it.
It's the greatest opportunity for getting laid you'll ever know.

Dance.

Even if you're pressed up against fifty stinking, sweating students.
Don't read the directions,
you can do it on your own.
Do not read Scan Newspaper,
it will only lower your IQ.

Get to know your hallmates.
You never know when they'll drop out for good.
Be nice to your lecturers.
They are your best link to your future and the people most likely to know a substantial amount more than yourself.
Understand that partners come and go,
but a precious few, who should be treasured.
Work hard to bridge the gaps in short term memory and lifestyle,
for the more wasted you get,
the more time you'll need to recover.
Live in the Cartmel ghetto once,
but leave before it makes you hard.
Live in pretty Pendle once,
but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: beer prices will rise,
university bureaucrats will philander,
you too will get old and when you do,
you'll fantasise that when you were young,
beer cost 50p a pint,
the administration was noble and freshers respected third years.
Respect the third years.
Don't expect college loans to support you.
Maybe you have a trust fund,
maybe you have wealthy parents,
but you'll never know when either one will run out.
Mess as much with your hair as you can or by the time you're forty,
it will look twelve.
Be careful whose alcohol you buy,
and be patient with those who supply it.
Alcohol is a form of fake nostalgia.
Drinking it is a way of rolling up reality,
painting over the ugly parts and pretending your life's amounted to more than it's worth.

But trust me on the Sparknotes.

- R. James Morgan

STAR'S 17TH ANNUAL EXECUTIVE BOARD MEETING ON 'OVERSIGHT'

The executive panel met in the West Room at the Mayflower Hotel, 1127 Connecticut Avenue, N.W., Washington, D.C., at 11:00., Sir. Maxwell Beatty, Chairman, presiding.

PRESENT:

Sir Maxwell Beatty - Chairman of Star Media

Robert Salter - United States Director of Central Intelligence

David Berger - Executive Director

Mark McCrimmon - Executive Director

John Devinney - Executive Director

Martin Driscoll - Executive Director

Laura Hart - Executive Director

APOLOGIES:

Paul Friesen - Executive Director

AGENDA:

Agenda Item Page

Introduction/Review of Agenda

- Sir Maxwell Beatty

Report from 'Crawlers'

- David Berger

Report from 'Fledglings'

- Mark McCrimmon

Report from 'Revolters'

- John Devinney

Report from 'Nurturers'

- Laura Hart

Report from 'Donors'

- Martin Driscoll

Annual Awards Presentation

- Sir. Maxwell Beatty

Report from the Central Intelligence Agency

- Robert Salter

Next Steps

- Sir. Maxwell Beatty

PROCEEDINGS:

(11.04)

CHAIRMAN BEATTY: I am pleased to call to order the seventeenth annual executive board meeting for Star Media. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank everybody for coming, let's hope we get things done as smoothly as we did last year. If you do not know any members of the board, permit me to present them.

On my far right is Mr. Mark McCrimmon who is the Executive Director for the 'Donors' department; Mark will be expanding on what's scaring the old people of this great nation a little later, shedding light on insurance adverts and the technicalities of simplicity.

Then Laura Hart of the 'Nurturers' department, she's new, we're still not quite sure about her yet, but hopefully her reports will match the excellent standards set by her coffee making. Laura specialises in day-time television.

To her left, Robert Salter of the United States Central Intelligence Agency, he's here to oversee the proceedings.

David Berger from the 'Crawlers' department, who'll be telling us which toys our children think are 'cool', he also specialises in sports, and wrote the currently best-selling novel, 'Marketing to the Under-8's: It's childsplay!'

Martin Driscoll of the 'Fledglings' department has the unenviable task of assessing the teenage market, from the ages of nine through to twenty-five.

John Devinney of the 'Revolters' department then to Martin's left, who will be reporting back to us the state of current 'alternative' leftists and their consuming patterns.

The figures certainly speak for themselves, if you haven't read the briefs from Paul Friesen who is unable to join us today, take my word for it, the future is bright for Star Media. We have delivered another year of positive financial results, this year total revenues increased by 15% over the twelve-month period, to $14.6 billion, whilst our total costs fell by 6% to $2.2 billion, generating a $12.4 billion profit. My friends, you can all take comfort in knowing that's two billion dollars more than America's Gross Domestic Product. As we all know, I cannot take all of the credit for this remarkable achievement. Without you to expertly assess the potential market, and without the Central Intelligence Agency constantly relaying data about the populous to our departments, Star Media would never have shone as brightly as it does today. Without you, my dreams could never have been realised as they have now, 'Oversight' was just a baby, but you nurtured it into the beast it has now become. From the very bottom of my heart, I say to you all; thank you. The people of this land belong to the good people sitting around this table right now, every single age group in the country has been caught up in our net and we, the proverbial fishermen, can be proud of our haul.

If I may begin by turning to my colleague Mr. David Berger, I assume whoopee cushions no longer cut the cheese with today's child?

DAVID BERGER: That's absolutely right Max, we've persuaded today's children that whoopee cushions, yo-yos, milk caps and even Pokémon just aren't fun enough anymore. What do all kids want to be when they grow up? It doesn't matter, what matters is that they all keep wanting to grow up. Things were tough at the start of the year, the fashion industry went through a tragic dry patch in make-up sales after Rejina went 'Au Naturel', and I remember when all of the departments here received an internal memo, asking us to help out. We thought about it at 'Crawlers', and we reached a simple conclusion: we had to teach the kids how to be consumers, while ensuring our own security for the future. So we invented 'Slutz', a group of go-getting, fashionable and sexy whores for the under-8 female market. 'Slutz' love chatting on their mobile telephone, putting on their make-up and shopping out in the mall, but most importantly, they love to fuck. Each 'Slut' comes built in with three 'sex moves', the more 'sex moves' you collect, the the higher your 'Moneypot' rating.

Let me put it to you this way, when this country's little girls saw older, prettier girls playing with these little pieces of plastic on TV, I got a phone call from no less than ten make-up companies, six fashion designers and countless toy stores, thanking me. Those are just the short term benefits. Estimates gathered over the past two financial quarters have shown pregnancy in the under 8s to be on the rise, and by the time these girls hit 10, their kids are going to be playing with the newer, more extreme version of 'slutz': 'Rapwhorez'. Due to Star's strong ethical code of conduct, Star Pharmaceuticals recently teamed up with various church ministers, and it has been concluded by both parties that contraceptives aren't to be sold to minors. After implementing this policy, we have established stronger links in the church, and the little girls are screwing without protection. The cycle continues gentlemen, and we continue to protect our investments.

As far as Little Jimmy goes, we've got him cornered too. The sports market is thriving, and with more sport TV channels reaching the nation than ever before, more boys are dreaming of becoming their idols. You see, we've taken the finest athletic specimens of our society, and put them out there, making them look like adonises, like warriors, like everything Little Jimmy's wanted to be. It's not even just Little Jimmy who gets caught up in this, guys of all ages see an athelete on their screens, and they all wish that they could look like that guy. But they can't be fucked to put in the work, so instead, they just surround themselves with the same nametags as their heroes, and hope that nobody will be able to tell the difference. We change team colours every season for a reason, and it's not because we're fickle. We've been in negotiations with the country's richest teams, and next season, they'll be wearing a new range of 'Invisi-shirts'. The great part is, 'Invisi-shirts' cost the same to buy as the old shirts, but they're physically just a label. The kids get the label, featuring whichever company bids highest for it, and they stick it to themselves, paying us 70 bucks for the privelige. We're hoping to cut our overheards by 5% next year.

Younger boys who don't like sport all seem to make up for it by snatching up our latest games console, the 'Game Brick', on almost a yearly basis, plus say, a conservative four games per year. That's almost 400 dollars a pop, every year. Fortunately, Max stopped running adverts for new books on television, which meant book sales plummeted. However, we must take the rough with the smooth, and as a result of Max's actions, the sales of computer games has almost tripled. Recent estimates from The Exclaimer show that six in ten boys between the ages of 2 and 8 become physically scared if they're not within a 10 feet radius of a football or a 'Game Brick' control pad; fear of the unknown, once again, is one of our closest allies in the war on public accumulation. Because of Max's shrewd business logic, little kids today have honestly got nothing better to do than give us money.

CHAIRMAN BEATTY: Thankyou for that report David, there's nothing more comforting than a well protected investment. Now, if we may turn the proceedings to Mr. Mark McCrimmon of 'Fledglings', Mark, I trust those wild young teenagers are still towing the line for Star Media?

By R. James Morgan

Little Boy Bleeding

There once was a boy who lived without joy,
His friends called him 'Little Boy Bleeding',
When they'd go to the park he'd sit home in the dark,
Under a red light, reading.
'What's he reading?' They'd ask as he embarked on his task,
And he'd say, 'Guys my heart needs feeding.
I sit in my flat to see where I'm at,
'Cos sometimes my feelings need heeding.'

But what was he reading, this Little Boy Bleeding,
Was it Shakespeare, Shelley or Poe?
And what was he heeding while his heart was feeding,
Keenan, Yorke or Simone?
The medium he took was alas not a book,
Or a poem or play now we know,
For slowly we learned that while his heart burned,
He ingested the purest emo.

Whenever his friends tried making amends,
Or ever called him on the phone,
He'd always reply in tones somewhat shy,
'I'm alright, leave me alone.
Seriously guys, no need to advise,
Please, just leave me alone?'
Listening to sadness and songs which brought madness,
He even wrote one of his own:

"Why cannot you see that I want to be,
There like a child, kneeling.
Nobody loves death, or my wasted breath,
And why are your eyes so deceiving?
I'm missing your laugh, how did it break in half?
When it is my heart that you're stealing.
N'like a bad star, I'm falling faster,
Burning in all that I'm feeling."

But tonight while he listened his tears gently glistened,
Until down his face they were creeping.
And with pain in his mind he reached to his blind,
To cut out the light that was seeping.
With no sign of slowing the tears kept on flowing,
All over his desk they were sweeping.
Had he opened his eyes much to his surprise,
He'd have seen this tsunami of weeping.

But the boy unawares kept embracing his tears,
Flooding the words he'd been scrawling.
While his music was played, he became more dismayed
Until salty floods started falling.
Down this freshet poured, soon soaking his floor,
And the puddles just wouldn't stop sprawling.
As he sniffled his nose the tear level rose:
A torrent created by bawling.

So caught up in hurt and no thought of alert,
He failed to see this tear moat.
Up his body it rose first tickling his toes,
Then his waist and his chest, then his throat.
Then his chin and his lips, an aquafacial eclipse,
Until the sad tide sunk his boat.
Tears flooded his room and welcomed his doom,
For sadly this boy didn't float.

But what of his friends, did they meet their ends,
Or did they just carry on playing?
Well they went to his flat asking where he was at,
And inside his mother was praying.
She told them he died, “He excessively cried,
In this world he's no longer staying,
He heard emo songs which sent him quite wrong,
And that boys is all that I'm saying."

Uncle Sir

Once the boy said to the man
On a hot summer's day,
"Uncle will you tell me please,
Why can't I go play?

The other boys all laugh outside,
And all are having fun,
Why must I sit here with you,
As they play in the sun?"

Staring daggers at his child,
The man's eyes grew from calm to wild,
And as he stroked the poor boy's head,
The man looked at the boy and said,

"I'm the one to hold you tight,
The one to make your world all right,
No matter who you search to see,
The only one for you is me."

"Yes Uncle Sir I know you're right,
But don't you think that they,
Might not truly be that bad,
Maybe they want to play?"

Reaching for the young boy's hand,
The man observed him briefly and
(forcing the boy to welcome his speech),
Holding him tight he started to preach:

"They are the ones who want you dead,
The ones with evil in their heads,
Their sole intent is to abuse you,
To bite you, scratch you, and to bruise you.

They are the ones who'll make you hurt,
But don't you try to stay alert,
Rest you now, I'll be your eyes,
Let me hide you from their lies.

I'm the one to hold you tight,
The only one to make it right,
If you heed what bad boys say,
The terror will not go away."

"But Uncle Sir what did I do?
What makes them hate me so?
I never even spoke to them,
What's there of me they know?"

"They can't see the boy you are,
But they can see you from afar,
Can you see them, crouching there?
Rotten drunk with heathen prayer.

They'll come for you in the night,
To take your family from your sight,
Bad faith turns their pure hearts black,
And leaves you weak to their attack.

Can you see them, coming near?
Curl up to me, no need to fear.
I'm the one to hold you tight,
The one to kiss your head goodnight."

"Yes Uncle Sir I see them now,
I see that they will hurt me.
Please Uncle Sir, protect me now,
And never, ever desert me."

And so the boy sits with the man,
And never goes to play,
And while the others laugh outside,
Inside the boy must stay.

- Trionix