Oh hey little friends.
How’s your holiday season going so far? Have you vomited up copious amounts of rancid eggnog and eaten your weight in candy and chocolate as God intended? If not, how dare you.
Well. This is a special Trash/Thrash Tuesday I suppose, because..
Richard Adams died today.
It’s not really sad per se, in that he was 96 years old, and that’s a pretty good roll of the dice in this crazy life of ours.
That said, Watership Down remains one of my favourite books and films of all time. The story of the rabbits is one that is very near to my heart.
Even more so since I am now on my second bunny rabbit pet.
Rabbits are dope as fuck. They eat their own shit and everyone still loves them. Also if they get too anxious they just die.
Really, rabbits are the real MVP.
Fall of Efrafa was a British crust punk/post hardcore/post metal etc band of sensuous sensitive dudes who played super doomy music based on the mythology of the world of Watership Down. The interplay of this mythology was interspered with Richard Dawkins and musings on the fall of humanity, our desire for religious ideals and our painful loneliness. I fucking love Fall of Efrafa.
Any sexy dudes in tight black pants screaming about rabbits is enough to get my lady boner working over time.
Anyways, this is a longer song, named after the primary antagonist and total bad ass General Woundwort leader of the warren of Efrafa.
I fully recommend filling your bowl and your lungs before listening to this one.
At the crux of our nation,
the cornea dies.
Spills out dissension,
a barrage of cries.
Written in looks and glanced rebellion,
we gather these ugly wounds,
weep words opposition.
Tilled fields bare bitter fruit,
tendrils like needles furrow and root.
Clasped hands dig nails through skin and through wood,
gouge out the terms of our parenthood.
Those who would summon,
to court these assumptions,
to cut out the blemish of the idiot prince.
The godhead resides within the welt of coercion,
defiles the virtue of all our children.
The accent of piety,
the idiot prince.
exalted and guilty as sin.
We no longer cower in his necrotic penumbra,
the prophetic repugnance wore out long ago.
the call is heard,
the word is given,
the throng descends upon his eminence.
he weeps in his woe.
The walls of his womb rock to an fro.
We will come knocking,
with baited breath,
the scent of the apostate rife with repent.
With icons dismantled,
the firmament cleansed.
We carve out new effigies and runes in the sand.
Faces of kindred,
faces of kind,
the worship of kinship fuels starving minds.
Where we lay,
we will build.
Though we may falter,
we will build.
The onus of power shifts in its cradle,
the locks on the doors brittle,
We splinter the timber, stand over the general.
The jabbering magnate,
dethrowned and devoured.
Scour this mantle!
We lingered far too long.
Smelt the chains!
Leave nothing unturned!
We suffered far too long.
Thank you, Richard Adams for the stories about bunnies.
Rest well, good sir.