The thoughts of Jason Statham

I have a body, I am steamy and smouldering
In an internally conflicted way
It is a strain sometimes
With the burden of my life's work - Assassin
Which I had thrust upon me
Now here is the girl - Jessica Alba
Who clearly I will get together with
Because we are approximately equally beautiful

I am ideally suited with my body and
my gravelly, husky voice

The main thing with a sex scene
Is to show my sexy and muscular back,
Sort of arched and for
Us to writhe a little in apparent passion or playfulness
And then you must show your back to the camera
And then I squeeze your bum
Camera cuts

Now that the money shot is out the way
There is the action
Fight sequences and shooting guns

Damn this plot is looking rather like James Bond
With the yachts and high rise hotel ponds
But then I am of a lower class altogether
At least I could not pull off Daniel Craig's look in leather
And my rough hewn features are ideal material
But I'm a little too bald to be considered 00-real

Still money talks and America cuts deals
We make the boulevard walk in the tinsel town reel
And the sun goes down on my mechanical appeal
Yet I've fought the good fight with 00-zeal

Time is money

Is time money?
Well what if it is?
Did the big bang make a billion
Spend it all, in one whizz
Is there a lot of it left us?
Well the universe yes
Maybe we'd all be millionaires
If we could live that long
But really that's fizz
Our episode is over
By the time the bubble
Has risen to the top
Of the champagne
And burst
Our age of fame
Must be likewise brief, filled with
Hope, life and acclaim
In order for it to feel
Any worth
So time is money only because
We value our lives
In this moment
But what if we never did own it
If the time was just on loan
From the bank
And one day we have to cash in
And return what was borrowed
Tomorrow will be just interest on today
We cannot take out more than
We can repay
And it all goes back to the bank anyway
Living on borrowed time

Well so you say time is money
And money it is time
It is interesting
What the perspective is of a rich man
Compared to a poor man on that line
Eachs' days are numbered, one may live in quality
While the other may be blessed
But live in the poverty of the oppressed or depressed
But each man's time is his money,
Each is rich in himself,
But the poor man is richer in quality time
Whereas the rich man must borrow beg, barter and steal
To truly feel his time is his own, that his time is real
Each man is a slave to some system of laws
Of government, that cement his feet in quicksand
Each wants to be free, yet it is easier to rise
From the slime when you have no belongings or baggage
But to fly when weighed down with gold
Now that is a difficult task

And what about the perspective of the young man and the old
The old maybe filled with fear of the world, though closer to repaying his
Debt to the bank he owes
Is his life worth any less than the young man full of vigour
And life force, though little in the way of wisdom's gold
The younger man will risk more, though perhaps he has more to lose, more natural long
Life promised him from the vaults to abuse
But what is this life worth in money if it is wasted, what in value if it is meaningless?
What more worthy measure is his time on earth than compared to what
The best man could earn?
No not earn, and let's not forget to mention women
Because they are on time and a half at least

Take me there in my dreams

Lead me on the hills unseen
The flashing brown, and tourquoise green
The windmills pill boxes
Of a war time that meant we never
Would surrender our dreams

Take me through the world unknown
To russet farms
Where they stone the crows
And angels harm
Their light foot toes
When they tread upon my dreams

Take me near the stinging rose
The shaded bower
Where water flows
From rocky gills
In the earth's repose
Oh take me there in my dreams

Lead me on the knackers run
Where old horse treads
As farmers with guns
Lay slung over arms
All knees and elbows
Oh take me there in my dreams

Crowding in

Chewing on the match sticks
Of lighted bigotry
Walking in the thatched brick
Houses of England's purgatory
Sailing in the solid towns
Whose markets all are empty
Winging like an emperor's crown
Over the mounted sentry
All along the pallisades
Of a time wrecked crew
Fighting off the attacking gulls
Whose scurvy cries once flew

All the penny whistle arcades
All the penniless parades
Where ruffians and one-time maids
Are taking turns on the chew

I follow an inspector
Who is returning from some space
With a fear detector, smeared all over
His face
Panic is his protector, it keeps
Him in the race
To follow the crowd from morning's
Cloud, through bustle of bodies embrace
And he pushes past the working girls,
Past the drunks, and the ladies in lace
And he brushes his coat tails with
The girl's of some disgrace
And at midday the streets are thronging,
The squares have a heaving grace
And palpitating shopper mingle
In and out of their place

He follows some inside a shop
Of candles, and grease and pastes
And oils smell, and tinctures quell
The crowd in its rabid pace

And the afternoon wears on
Along side market stalls
With meat, hanging cured, and cutting
Tools, and the parambulators ambling trace
The parasols beneath sun scholes that dapples
Over his face, and soon this market
Packs up shop, folds up tables
Closes stops and
He is left like a hairless dog
Yelping on the pavement
And the rain falls down in feathers,
That soon turn into heavier things
That fetter in the wetter arches, that
Nestle in the Spring
That trickle down shirt collars,
And coats that are pulled round close
And his search becomes more desperate
As the shoppers leave their posts
They rush indoors inthis street, so he
Wanders on through corridors
Of darkened ways and alleys
Broken by cats and aunt Sally's
And Salvation armiests appraise him
They accost and pull him in
This old man for whom the life blood
Seems to be drawing thin
But emerging again in another street
Where crowd is swelling still
He heaves his sigh of relief
And swims in for his fill
Is he a thief
I cannot tell
I see no sleight of hand
Unless he robs them of themselves
No wealth worth more to man
Is he a criminal intent on
Stalking blood or murder
When it comes to night will
His blood lust rise will
His victims fall foul of this herder
Yet he is not picking pockets,
Though others around him do
Though he is jostled,
He is bumped, he yet has hustled
From a burgeoning due
Like time and taste have drawn him
As if a deadline right on queue
Ever drawing nearer, never ending
He must pursue

Start over again

For every boom there is a bust
For every doom, there is a lust
A hope in despair to carry on
Oh don't give up old Harry John

For every broom there is the dust
For every loom there is a rust
Oh can you tell me where they've gone
Simon, Peter, Luke and John

The friends we had they've walked on by
Down a different road they try
And some roads crumble crack and crust
Some they rise up to the sky
All the ways we do what we must
Fearless warriors of time and trust

For every hero there is a villain
For every Deniro there is a Dylan
But don't walk on your own
Even when you walk your own line
Everything has an end
My dear friend
And everything has a beginning
Just take courage to stand up
And start it all over again

You can call me

You can call me a slob
Oh you can call me a knob
You can call me
Till you're tickled pink
You can call me a job
You can call me a hob
Just don't call me
Someone who didn't think

Oh you can call me a cab
You can call me a rab
You call me a horse who drinks
But if you call me a jab
Well if you call me a scab
I will punch you in a blink

You can call me a hole
You can call me a mole
You can call me everything
but the kitchen sink
Well if I have a soul
You better know an'll
So now you can call me the
Missing link

Heaven in Hell

And it is all just a little bit like
Heaven in hell
Your brothers they know you
Your sisters know you well
And this is all a little bit like
Heaven in Hell

The songs are like stringlets
The birds like silohettes
moving across the sky
Like burning cigarettes
Against a dying sun

The bog of tears
Like a rollercoaster
Floating in the sunrise
Like a May fly
over the pond
Daddy long legs in the corner
Of the ceiling bouncing off the wall
Joy of you is reeling
From the corner of the hall

There is a pulse in the blood in the walk of the fool
There is the song of the sea in the nautilus shell
There is a memory of my mother showing me
This Heaven in Hell

There are bricks and mortar
Sticks and stones
Bread and butter
Blood and bones
And all of these I know too well
As I walk into this Heaven in Hell

Song of my father, song of my son
Song of my daughter like a reflection
Down a well
Speaking from the forest
Speaking from the cave
Speaking from unseen trees that fell
Talking about a Heaven in Hell

Dogs in the dirt road
Talking like an old toad
Baking in the hot sun
Hiding under a stone
In the shadows of a tolling bell
Ringing out for this Heaven in Hell