The Imaginary Suitcase

The Imaginary Suitcase

By The Imaginary SuitcaseMusic
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The Imaginary Suitcase episodes

  • Hope Is A Sick Joke (album Version)
    We men have been in charge for the last 3.000 years or so, and our legacy is one of murder, war, torture, genocide and suffering. Not because we are inherently evil, but because we have been lured into believing that power is desirable in itself. It is time we shun almost everything we have been taught, because most of what it allegedly takes to be a "man" does not make us men, just obedient foot soldiers of some king, priest or banker's wars.
    Lyrics:
    As long as we measure the value of a man
    By how many other men bow to him
    As long as we measure the strength of a man
    By the number of his victims
    As long as we worship the fighting cocks
    The lions and the peacocks
    As long as we take pride in tears
    In humiliation and fear
    There can be no hope
    How could there be hope?
    Hope is a sick joke
    How can we look at ourselves in the mirror
    And not burst out laughing?
    How can we claim we are masters and landlords
    When we’re just puppets on a string?
    I’ve said it before our chains are plated gold
    So we can pretend they are jewels
    Our prisons have wi-fi and beer is ice cold
    So we can all revel like big fools
    There can be no hope
    How could there be hope?
    Hope is a sick joke
    How much crap has been poured in our heads
    That we love what hurts us the most
    How many lies have we been breastfed
    By shadows of long extinct ghosts
    All that we touch we turn into a war zone
    Can’t we do better than that?
    All of the shams and deceit we condone
    Is this what it’s all about?
    There can be no hope
    How could there be hope?
    Hope is a sick joke
    4 min
  • Pigeons Playing Chess
    Haven't we all sometimes given in to the temptation of arguing for hours with a perfect stranger about stuff? Haven't we all every now and then turned ourselves into fighting cocks, more in love with the fight than with the cause? ;-)
    Lyrics:
    It’s never been about the cause
    It’s never been about the facts
    Who cares for a truth that no one really knows
    It’s just about having the last word
    What is it we’re fighting for?
    My truth screams louder than yours
    My God has a bigger dick and has guns galore
    And you’re just an attention whore
    We’re all pigeons playing chess
    We’re all peacocks I guess
    No one knows a thing about the world we’re living in
    And if you don’t think like me, you’re Hitler
    Learned idiots prancing in talk shows
    Their Minions echo them on social networks
    They know all about football, medicine, politics,
    Feminism, climate change & quantum bloody physics
    Clinging to their gospel like it’s a lift raft
    Some even get money for that
    Every rabid roach has its favourite gurus
    Depending of what’s in the news
    We’re all pigeons playing chess
    We’re all some fucker’s parrot I guess
    No one knows a thing about the mess we’re living in
    And if you dare to disagree, you’re Stalin
    We’re all fucking cardboard tanks
    We all have mold in our brains
    No one knows a thing about the world we’re living in
    And if you contradict me you’re bin Laden
    Let the one who never gave in to rant on anything
    To display his Dunning-Krueger on a subject he didn’t master
    Let her cast the first stone, yeah, it’s most likely a her
    And for the rest of you, for the rest of us for the rest of everyone,
    Maybe we should just shut our fucking faces unclefuckers
    This game has only one winner
    And his name is Mark Zuckerberg…
    And if you wanna prove me wrong, well, whatever
    6 min
  • OK Boomer
    We are all fed up of your arrogance, folks. All weary of you being insufferable know-it-alls. Tired of being requested to be grateful for your scorn.
    Your world is crumbling. You know it, and we know the more it will fall apart, the more obnoxious, hateful and despicable you will become. But we don't care anymore. Go, bark as you wish, you're not stopping anything anymore.
    Lyrics:
    There you are, patronizing as usual
    Dealing death and judgement from your throne made of fool’s gold
    We are tired of watching your misplaced pride
    You know all the answers but you don’t know any single question
    There you are blaming everyone especially your daughters & sons
    Petty ludicrous inquisition
    We are tired of hearing you spew your bile always one the wrong ones
    Always on the weaker ones
    We have every right to be upset, we have every right to be mad
    Cause now we know you fed us lies and good intentions won’t make it right
    we have every right to discard you, you rigged the game and tilted the table
    And you look so self-satisfied but lies are lies & they weren’t even white
    There you are hammering spoilt brat wisdom
    Bloated egos so self-important
    There we are one foot on sea one on shore but both feet deep in your manure
    And the light at the end of the tunnel, it’s a train
    We have every right to be upset, we have every right to be mad
    Cause now we know you fed us lies and good intentions won’t make it right
    we have every right to discard you, you rigged the game and tilted the table
    And you look so self-satisfied but lies are lies & they weren’t even white
    You have built the cities of nightmare, you have drank the whole world dry
    Now that we ask for a glass, you call us thieves and lowlife crass
    But we won’t be grateful for your contempt, we won’t thank you for your scorn
    Cause your whole world was built on lies and we’re about to tear it down
    5 min

About The Imaginary Suitcase

From the publisher's feed

In the beginning, there was Laurent Leemans, singer of the folk-rock combo Ceilí Moss from 1996 to 2015 and of the arty-new wave band La Vierge du Chancelier Rolin in the 90s. In 2012, the longing to bring to life some songs that had not found their place in the repertoire of his groups ended up becoming stronger than the fear of becoming the umpteenth silly sod on acoustic guitar who hoots his existentialism on two and a half chords.