Leave your answers for the bones,
It's not just you alone who knows
That the shadows ‘neath the road
Won't last forever.
But listen in the meantime, though,
As the cannons on the noon explode
As the statesman and the pauper
Pa** by together.
And as the gunman blinded by the sun
Aims for the sky and the fires
That sired his vision,
His hands are tied to the eyes
of the children's minds
And the line of knives that bind time
With every incision.
And when they pull on the noose
That his bullets and their ruthlessness
Have inspired,
My hands, they too, will tire.
From the leaking pores of the piss poor
To the royal blood drawn from old folk lore
- each a man, made, born, lured, or torn
From a mother.
And they'll be some who bleed the others dry,
With aspirations not to die,
But to d**h means no more or less
than any other.
And where the minors of kindness pry deep
Into the weeping trials provided by
The gold torch left bare
And unprotected,
The blazing hands of the dog eat dog band's
Only wish is not to go to the grave
Without being
Respected.
And as they look upon the angel choir
Who sing songs so far
From what they desire,
My eyes, they too, will tire.
As excursions wane the Jester's game
To trick-reap the lands for other's gains,
Now money maintains the way
In which they suffered.
Which once was clear a row of arms in chains
Now appear as nothing changed -
Restrained by wages, the sovereign slaves
Wage war on each other.
And as the suits and sullied saints
Taint the buck that Lady Luck struck
With a hunter armed with hunger,
He's fed to d**h with one hand
And led along with the other
Towards the wealth that
She'll bury him under.
And as he ponders his position
Where the condition of his sanity
Seems dire,
My mind, it too, will tire.
If man made god, and god judged man,
Then man shed god of both god's hands,
Then whose divine right is it
To write the laws that govern?
The strongest armed, the loudest bark?
The bu*ton braced for exodus dark?
Both right and wrong have masters
Marked above them.
And where the crusader wraps himself
In his flag of stars
To mask his moral scars
And his marred ambition,
The crossed has burned
Not only in his field of graves
But in the minds of those men
Ashamed of their old tradition.
And as they call into the wind
In the hopes to catch the ear
of their guilty Messiah,
My voice, it too, will tire.
The ancient pen of speech re-writes
The erudite machine of night,
As the T.V. quotes the quill
And makes the martyrs;
Ideas, ideals, idols augment
The clear intent of wars decent -
Each an idiom of truth
That can't be bartered.
But when the gas-masked masters
Cast a cloud around the crowd
They'll herd to heaven,
The preachers and the guzzlers
Will both agree that a country
Can't be great
Without a weapon.
And as they bleed into the wine gla**es
Of the heroes
They've all been taught to admire,
My heart, it too, will tire.
You'll observe it as the road unfolds,
That what you live is what you know,
And the bricks that have no tears
To flows in tatters.
And I lose my strength to put to words
An attempt at truth drawn undisturbed
By right or wrong,
Or if it even matters.
And on the stone were the prophet
Loaned his eyes to the pa**ers by
And contemplated what they could acquire,
They celebrate the haze that mars the day
One way in which the greys
Won't raise any higher.
And when they laugh
At how the colours of their visions
Burn bright as holy fire,
My hatred, it too, will tire.
My hatred, it too, will tire.