The Mob 1982.

The Mob 1982.

We never asked for war; this glib, horrific indifference, that leads young
men barely old enough to have experienced anything of the joy of life to
kill and be killed, is something that you have imposed upon us. You snatch
these young bodies from the brain-washing cradle of the school room to be
maimed, mutilated and slaughtered in the cold grave of your cynicism. You
tear these young bodies from their homes to die in the foreign soil of your
barren, bloodstained minds. How perverted you are, how distorted and
twisted, how divorced from the simple joy of existence. You dare to threaten
to one life that we have with your pained violence. In the crystal light of
our lives you are the darkest shadow.

Each body that you shovel into the mass graves of history is another darling
boy that you have bled, another precious life that you have defiled, another
act of creation that you have dared to violate. What is birth to you but
another rag that you may wring and slap and beat and discard? What is life
to you but another plastic body-bag into which you defecate? What is death
to you but the difigured bodies of our children upon whose angel faces you
smear your rancid droppings?

How grand you must feel as you chart out your battlefields; each feature on
that map describes the desolation of your mind. How powerful you must feel
as you order the plunder and rape of those battlefields; each bayonet that
turns in some contracting stomach is the pointing finger of your right hand.
How omnipotent you must feel as those young men stumble in the death of
those battlefields; each death is part of you that dies.

How glorious war. How rich the experience of war.

Those castaway boys, deranged, dismembered, crying, homeless, are the
reality of your honor, the actuality of your insanity. That horror is the
heritage that you create. That insanity is the tradition that you leave to
those as yet unborn. The frightened corpses of the living are shadowed by
your arrogance. The limbless corpses of the dead are devoured in your lust
for power. The maggots that inch away at the rotting flesh are your true
compatriots, you keep them fed, they are your true companions. Those bodies
were my brothers that you have destroyed. That battlefield is my home that
you have burnt in your fire.

Your minds are filth. Your lives are corruption. You are the walking dead,
the parasites who bleed this earth of ours, that dry the waters from the
river-beds and give us blood in its place.

YOU STAND ACCUSED OF PREMEDITATED, CALCULATED AND COLD-BLOODED MURDER. YOUR
CRIMES ARE WELL DOCUMENTED. YOUR GUILT IS THE RESPONSABILITY THAT ONE DAY
YOU WILL HAVE TO REALISE.

Crass. 3rd June 1982.