Roy Harper:I Hate the White Man

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“I Hate the White Man”
Artist: Roy Harper
Albums: Flat Baroque And Berserk (1970)
Composers: Roy Harper
Lyricists: Roy Harper

The whole atmosphere of what I'm trying to say with it
And what it is meant to be saying
Er, so far as anybody can be meant to be saying anything with anything
You know what I, you know what I mean anyway
What I was gonna say is
This is a song
That I wrote er, probably, as a, as a slightly desperate move
I don't know
I thought it was necessary at the time, I thought it was necessary for somebody to say it
To the Ian Pates
And, you know
The, the, that mob
The white men
What I was gonna say as an illustration is that
You can always tell the difference between a rich country and a poor country because
In the poor country, the
Get together with the
The dogs and the sun and the, and the kids and the dirt
And the shit, you know, in the village square
Or wherever it is
And, er, sit and listen to the music
And the music reaches strange
And glorious and very fast, full heights
Er, and the people all dig it, and even the kids dig it and it's a great scene
And even the dogs dig it
And the whole sky digs it
And infinity man, you know
Er, you know and everybody's sort of, collapses afterwards
In a, in a, a fit of satisfaction
You know, but in the rich country it's different
They all, er,
They all pay, to see somebody who is stuck onto a stage
The whole
Act of
Christ, you know what it is
Goes on, in front of you
And, not only that, you pay to see it
And, er
Not only that
But most of the time, in a rich country
You can't hear yourself for the people talking around you
That's where they're all, er
You're on the record, man
Striking a match
That's where they're all, er
That's where they're all bending over each other to, er
Tell each other how good you are
Or how bad you are
Or how sloppy they thought you were tonight
Or er, or, "He wasn't together at all tonight was he?"
Or er, "I don't dig his scene at all"
Or er, [falsetto] "I can't get into him at all"
Or er ...
Anyway, this is a
This is a song for the er
Well there's no need to name them
There's absolutely no need to name them
They are who they think they are.

Far across the ocean
In the land of look and see
There once was a time
For you and me

Where the winds blow sweetly
And the easy seas flow still
And where the barefoot dream of life
Can laugh and cry its fill

Where slot machine confusions
And the plastic universe
Are objects of amusement
In the fiction of their curse

And where the crazy white man
And his teargas happiness
Lies dead and long since buried
By his own fantastic mess

For I hate the white man
And his plastic excuse
For I hate the white man
And the man who turned him loose

And the reins of coloured thunder
Of the stallion of the dawn
Ride the coalfire morning
On the beach where all is born

Where the emperor of meaning
Is burning up his fort
And sits to warm his toes
Around a fire made up of useless thoughts

And when the children tempt him
With the riddles of their trance
He flings the flames of solstice
Casting laughs into their dance

And while a crazy white man
In the desert of his bones
Lies as bleached as the paradise
He likes to think he owns

And I hate the white man
In his evergreen excuse
Oh I hate the white man
And the man who turned him loose

And far across the reaches
Of the drifting yellow sands
The living carpet wilderness
Forever joins its hands

With heaven's hell's attainment
In a surging crest of fire
Where more than all is thrown upon
The ever lasting pyre

And through the countless canticles
Of Jason's charcoal fleece
Are sung the songs of nothing
In the timeless masterpiece

And there stood in the middle
Guess who?
It's the everlasting bust
Built by god's very own white man
As he tries to rule the dust

And I hate the white man
In his doctrinaire abuse
Oh I hate the white man
And the man who turned you all loose

And the bowels of his city
Have been locked into a safe
Where the spew stains on the sidewalks
Are defenders of his faith

While back inside his kitchen
The bowler hatted, long haired saint
Cleans with soap and water
But it's really just white paint

While his golden headed scandal sheets
Present its daily bite
To give their righteous news-bleeders
Drugs to keep them white

While outside in the whitewash
Where the guns are always, always right
A shooting star has summoned
Its dark angel from his night

And I hate the white man
And his evergreen excuse
Oh I hate the white man
And the man who turned you all loose
And the man who turned him loose