Tempting, Turning, Loosely burning, Folding, Falling, Cracking, Crawling. In

my heart the stars are calling. There are no locks. There are no doors. The

keys lay broken on the floor. All the ships they have no ores. The tides have

turned and come no more. Birds landing on stony ocean floors, Flap

featherless wings to fan the shores. Fish walk upright, monkeys talk, then

donkeys and elephants, with concrete necks, and lips sowed shut with fishing

string, continue speaking all the things that are obscene.

The sirens wail, the air turns black. The world is drowned in meth and crack.

While religion promptly terns it’s back, with blessings on the forward march,

attack, attack, attack. And the politicians, just like bats. rest in the rafters, fat

like cats, screeching to there printed gods, ten to one on the odds, attack,

attack, attack.

Now the beast comes roaring in the night. Children run in screaming flight.

Theirs nothing wrong out hear tonight, just shrapnel snuffing out the light.

The planes are gone. The night is still. Through the heat of summer comes a

chill. Who the hell will pay the bill? The blasted bastards have their pill, and

swallow it down, that they will.

Now in lands torn to shreds, the price of freedom is there heads. The vultures

rally and feed on heads while ours are sleeping in our beds with feather tops

apposed to thorny rocks where the other world beds.

Where are the WMD’S and booms they make across he seas. Never found,

never seen, how could we miss these massive things. Yet we must persist, we

must move on. We are not safe forever on. Our army’s fight the wicked wrong

even after we hung Sodom.

Will we ever see a peaceful day? Will the tanks ever go away. Who’s to dream,

who’s to say, that we may see a peaceful day, where all the guns are put away.

Where all the world is free from strive, and no one shakes at point of knife.

For now the smoke floats ever more. As the men of war, they sing there song,

the trodden down are trampled on, but the drummer boy he marches on. The

carrion crow is fat and strong. Until the world is dead and gone, the scourge

of conquest marches on.

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