Nobody’s In Charge, Somehow

Good news The corpse has action points Nobody did it You all had a go Little clean hands In a nice little row No one swung hard No one stood tall Just twenty soft wrists And a managed fall You killed it with process You wet little saints All clean shoes And no plausible taint No blood on the carpet No name on the blade Just a room full of cowards Getting quietly paid Pass the knife Lose the face Move the stink Round the place Raise a risk Kill a nerve Call it work Let it serve Nobody’s in charge, somehow That’s your favourite trick All the little no-ones Made the same wound stick Nobody’s in charge, somehow No bastard gets caught You can murder by committee If you call it a thought You didn’t bury the body You booked a review Sent round the minutes And called that true The spine went missing The tea stayed hot You all looked busy While the thing got shot No villain with a black hat No fist through a door Just gutless little nodders Asking if there’s more You’d bottle a kicking If it came with a name But give you a workflow And you’ll cripple the lame Pass the knife Lose the face Move the stink Round the place Raise a risk Kill a nerve Call it work Let it serve Nobody’s in charge, somehow That’s your favourite trick All the little no-ones Made the same wound stick Nobody’s in charge, somehow No bastard gets caught You can murder by committee If you call it a thought You can’t look guilty here You’d need a self for that You’re not evil Too flattering You’re cowardice with calendar access A damp little “we” where an “I” should have had teeth You didn’t make the call You made sure the call had nowhere else to land The decision wore a lanyard Then left before lunch The risk had a workshop The truth got punched The blame had pastries The minutes looked clean And every dead-eyed bastard Forgot what “I” means Nobody’s in charge, somehow That’s your favourite trick All the little no-ones Made the same wound stick Nobody’s in charge, somehow No bastard gets caught You can murder by committee If you call it a thought No hand No name Same cut Same shame No face No guilt Just the cowards And the shit For the slower autopsy, see "The Conservation of Power" Bring your own spine