Tap our phones and cramp our styles.
Lock us up without fair trials.
Check our luggage for nail files.
We will not be cowed.
Keep tabs on library books.
Categorize us by looks.
Sometimes kings can fall to rooks.
Freedom is our shroud.
Change the laws and steal the land.
We still have the upper hand.
Ninety nine united stand.
Though mountains are plowed.
We the people shall prevail.
You can’t put us all in jail.
Our life blood is not for sale.
Stuff you, mushroom cloud.
“God always comes in through the side door
if he bothers to show up at all ,”
said the tired old grey haired bartender,
one day late December, after a mild fall.
“He sits on the stool by the juke box,
as if that’s just where he belongs.
He has a few shots of tequila,
and always plays these same three songs.
It’s ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow,’
and ‘Baby, The Rain Must Fall.’
And then halfway through ‘Lonely Teardrops,’
he’s usually startin’ to bawl.
he says he’s the cause of our troubles.
He can’t stop the shit goin’ down.
He sure gets to me. I turn on the t.v.,
and usually buy him a round.
And then he takes off in a hurry,
as if he’s remembered a date.
He leaves a good tip” ‘Go down with the ship,
but sail before time gets too late.’ “
The ghost of mediocrity
is out bowling for dollars.
Ten pins, he wins, the counter spins,
he flies around and hollers.
The game is just a sidelight.
He should really be asleep.
But smashing wood
sometimes feels good,
more fun than counting sheep.
Tomorrow he’ll resume his rounds,
shepherding toward the mean.
But right now there’s a six-ten split,
and he’s a spare machine.
The righteous will die with the damned,
a puzzle all over the land.
The pieces are covered with blood.
We’re working our way to the flood.
The troops are well-meaning, of course,
a brave and insidious force.
The rockets are aimed. The weak will be maimed.
Much later we’ll deal with remorse.
The bombs are all loaded in planes.
War fever is coursing through veins.
Each woman and kid who’s not too well hid
will suffer incredible pains.
The world will forgive us in time.
Some day war will be seen as crime.
But, until that day, we’ll say bombs away.
We’re murderous men in our prime.
My love for the Queen
is out of check.
Want to storm her castle
like a knight.
Call the bishop,
I am sweet love’s pawn.
King me in the palace
of romance.