Disappointment, Disapproval, Disbelief

by Bridges Left Burning

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Want Vinyl?

The physical version of this record comes on (limited!) 10'' colored vinyl with a pretty unique artwork (lyrics, suggested reading/watching list and some additional info included of course). It is available here: www.downthedrainrecords.de

And the best about it: THE TOTAL VOLUME OF SALES WILL BE DONATED TO PeTA! Neither the label nor the band will get any money out of this!

Please show your compassion and support PeTA by buying this record!

If you want to support us, pay a fair price for the downloads above, see merch-section on www.downthedrainrecords.de, get our 2010 album "A Breath Of Loss" or, even better, come to our shows!

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released May 20, 2011

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Bridges Left Burning Frauenau, Germany

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Track Name: Creationists Are Idiots, As All I Can See Is Stupid Design - the handrail on our way to idiocracy
CREATIONISTS ARE IDIOTS, AS ALL I CAN SEE IS STUPID DESIGN - The handrail on our way to idiocracy

"And there was a time in this country, a long time ago, when reading wasn't just for fags neither was writing. People wrote books and movies, movies that had stories so you cared whose ass it was and why it was farting, and I believe that time can come again!" - Idiocracy

We live in prosperity in such an enlightened, modern nation,
where the truth is distorted, starting off with education.
There's a whole generation suffering from mind deflation,
the monotonic flickering sent their brains on vacation. But these pictures are just the society's reflection, the log of our dumbing-down and our "lack-of-interest infection".
School desks filled with moronic girls and insane boys,
who don't know how to read, but are drowning in toys.
In this world of too much noise!
Oppressed without force, silenced without gag.
The modes of control they have prevailed.
Moving pictures to rock the cradles,
empty phrases to mesmerize.
A mass-Ritalin to be
an anchor in the haste of life.
Communication's death by one-way-conversations suffocated the last bit of intelligence,
in the wasted minds of
the sedated, apathetic nation.
Consume-seductions, brainless "whores" and steroid-freaks
- as if there was nothing else.
But who's to blame?
We can't complain,
it's a portrait painted by ourselves.
Track Name: You're The Change
YOU'RE THE CHANGE

"Schau hi do liegt de Waid im Dreg und olle midanand schaund weg. Andasd wiads ned vo aloa, do meas ma scho wos doa." - Miserablige Hundsbuam

I say it's time to make a stand,
let's turn these common wrongs to ethically acceptable rights.
There are alternatives.
Let's cut the blinds!
We might not change the whole world,
but at least ourselves and create a Mexican-standoff by displaying our discontent about our surroundings! "We must be the change we wish to see"*
You can't make the difference?
Well, your faineance can!
You can see reason and care
for someone else,
or keep your selfish way of disregard and disrespect. Since I got my eyes opened
by "the sound of change",
I doubt what's fed to us
and began to think for myself,
to make decisions with my mind and my heart.
There is suffering, pain and tragedy in our world,
but the day you close your eyes to it,
your heart will die by the bitterness you feed to it.
As soon as you don't want to face it,
don't stand against it in any way,
you might as well embrace it.
(* Mahatma Gandhi)
Track Name: Horus Of Disapproval - adding god to misery
HORUS OF DISAPPROVAL - Adding God to Misery

"Full-size lies, lies life-size. You stand for everything I despise!" - Chorus of Disapproval

This one's for the lie-infected youth,
misled by empty promises.
What good is searching when there's nothing to find? It's fraud - in the absence of mind.
Made up from samples of old lores,
then translated and translated again.
Faith-by-numbers, not a dogma, not even close.
It's not an answer and it never was,
it's a bloodline through the ages,
with cruelty filling pages.
No "higher wisdom" is found in the words of these storytellers.
You ignore the bequested evidence of genocide, raped cultures and stolen lands in the name of "holiness";
ignore the dark ages
and blood soaked pages,
to pick out spot tests that suit you.
Your god is a heresy, your religion a fallacy
and your deliverance - a delusion.
They fuck your mind until you're blind,
headfirst Robin Hoods stealing from the poor to live like a king.
"Wanna have salvation? Get on your knees, give me all your money and kiss the motherfuckin' ring." Help-seeking people look towards you for a handful of hope,
but you just add god to their misery in the pursuit of your hegemony.
I've seen people starving on the doorsteps of a million dollar church
and a pastor looking to the sky, but not to pray,
he just looked away.
Track Name: Call It Treason If You Will (I'm a nihilistic, chaotic punk, so I don't care anyways)
CALL IT TREASON IF YOU WILL (I'm a nihilistic, chaotic punk, so I don't care anyways)

"Dissent is the highest form of patriotism." - Howard Zinn

Iron crosses turned to medals with yellow ribbons, swastikas to eagles. Warmonger's propaganda,
it's entirely indifferent as long as everybody's believing all the lies that they're telling,
buying all the products that they're selling.
To feed young minds with hate, lies and prejudice, they're given a uniform,
so they can hide in this disguise,
but what they don't know
is that their mind, heart, spirit and ambition
dies on the battlefield amongst some political issue, on behalf of the greed of a ruling elite.
I'm not a servant, I won't be trained to kill,
I won't believe in these fake ideals.
I still have a working mind and a free will.
And there we are, calling to arms again,
fighting a war for no reason but one:
The hegemony of few.
A nation trapped in self-delusion, unwilling to change. Patri(di)otic you follow blind,
shun to think for yourself.
You're governed by an elitist group,
depredating, raping, killing, searching for idiots like you,
who do not demand answers nor doubt.
Who serve as tools so they maintain the power to oppress.
The bludgeon of propaganda led us to one-sided violence,
but there are ideas unsilenced.
Some call it diversity, some call it disagreement. Some call it disagreement, some call it treason. Some've got a flag and some've got a reason.
Track Name: Slaughterhouse Of Glass
SLAUGHTERHOUSE OF GLASS

"If slaughterhouses had glass walls, everyone would be vegetarian" - Sir Paul McCartney

Our diets are dehumanized,
still we look into inhuman eyes,
ignoring helpless, painful cries.
We're fed off with excuse and lies.
No slaughterhouse is made of glass,
as they're producing corpses by mass.
Digging common graves till our hands are red, euphemisms cover the blood that's shed.
This delusion of our minds led to a repression
of our compassion,
we're not shocked, if someone's wearing fur
as an accessory of fashion.
I'm writing this, because it took me 18 years
to finally realize,
that it's not arguable if for our pleasure or comfort any being dies.
It's lives we treat as basic commodity,
our blind eye to this genocide is not even an oddity. It's rape and murder we take for granted - compassion turned to the proverbial seed unplanted. (A house of bricks. Cages of steel. The pain they feel. The concrete ground. A hollow sound. Throats cut by knives. They're ending lives.)
Oh, humanity can be so damn pathetic,
scrawl blood into your face and call it cosmetic. Vivisect creatures just to stare at me in defiance, claim it's done for the survival of humankind and call it science.
Serving the menu or just the mortician?
You eat desecrated corpses and call it nutrition. How'd you like your raped carcass today?
Roasted or fried?
Thousands of biddies live in their own excrements in filthy sheds,
think of your meals this week and count the severed heads.
Pigs who aren't growing quickly enough
are killed by being slammed headfirst against the concrete ground,
another life, that ended without ever breathing fresh air.
Just endless seeming suffering, then
- a hollow sound.
These sickening images rarely take a public toll.
The "slaughter-cover-up machine" is spinning out of control.
And so beings are still beaten to death with sticks, hidden in an industrial fortress - a house of bricks. It's the concrete walls that satisfy.
No slaughterhouse is made of glass.