No, they don’t make guys like me, you get exactly what you see I come from a long line of bloodline that ain’t gonna change
So, take your pistol pointing finger right off of the trigger
I know where to aim, hell, I’m to blame
The grim cathedral arch alone Towers over dust and stone Monument to flesh and bone Twisted, stark and bare.
And the floodlights’ sharp relief Magnifies the weight of grief In the ruins that lie beneath That emptiness of air.
The papers from the building flew Hung in the air in a sky of blue Souls of the newly dead and gone Shone so bright, on a Tuesday morn.
In the canyon streets, the towering cloud Tumbles on the running crowd Falling like a funeral shroud Darkening the sun.
Staggered statues, concrete grey Man as ashes, dust and clay Desolation of the day Falls on everyone.
The papers from the building flew Hung in the air in a sky of blue Souls of the newly dead and gone Shone so bright in the morning sun.
I watched it on my TV screen Devolution of the dream Images a nightmare scream To wake the likes of me.
A charnel house of sight and sound Familiar streets, a killing ground The day they brought the buildings down Down for all to see.
Ann says: This is one of the best and most understated 9/11 memorials I have found. Singer-songwriter David Francey is such a good poet that he is able to tell the story using only images of citiscapes and the people within them. Our minds fill in the details.
I saw David Francey perform, and I requested this song. He became visibly shaken and said that he only performed it in September due to the horrific nature of 9/11.
Written and performed by David Francey. All rights reserved. (Nov. 8, 2001)
Images: 1. YouTube.com 2. BusinessInsiders.au 3. Peter Morton for Reuters
“There’s a certain assumption that when a man tells the truth it’s the truth,” she says. “But when I go before the jury to tell the truth, I have to negotiate how I’m going to be perceived. There’s a suspicion around a woman’s truth.”
“My story,” says Hanna in one of the last scenes of the film, “it’s so big, it sounded like too big a can of worms, and I was like, who would believe me? But then I realized, other women would believe me.”
Kathleen Hanna, in the documentary The Punk Singer