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.’ “