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If they unleashed thoughts in my head,
So many more people would be dead.
Bombings, kidnappings, executions,
Anthrax plagues, chemical pollution.
Poison gases, fatal potions.
Arson, sabotage, vast explosions.
Tell me…. Where can I get bombs and mortars?
Where can I get instruments of torture?
When can I start, I just can’t wait.
I need to find ways to let out my hate.
But all my thoughts I must resist
For I am only…. a psychological…. terrorist.
Landed gentry, aristocrats. Vile industrialists, fat cats.
Military dictators, Tory politicians. Game-show hosts and crap musicians.
Line them up against a wall, my firing-squad will kill them all.
Corrupt officials, mercenaries. Fascist judges, reactionaries.
P.C. Plod in his oversize boots. Smarmy spin-doctors, men in grey suits.
These agents of Big Brother state, will feel the full force of my hate.
Paperazzi, tabloid journalists, the god-squad, Christian fundamentalists.
Wishy-washy democratic socialists,
Will all suffer the vengeance of my clenched fist.
So are you impressed by the length of my list?
But I am only…. a psychological… terrorist.
In my death-head bed-sit, painted black, my mind is only on one track.
I have no time for material palaver, I just worship my poster of Che Guevara.
Playing Sex Pistols records til 4 a.m. Plotting total political mayhem.
Smashing amplifiers is not good enough, I want to get out and strut my stuff.
Holding governments to ransom. Indulge my fantasies of Charles Manson.
Now you’ve heard my story, you may want to enlist,
But you cannot join, please do not insist,
From all violence I will desist,
For I am only…. psychologically….. a terrorist, a terrorist, a terrorist.
