Hard hands hold small things
In their power just for power.
While something keeps their necks stiff
Enough to be held above, to give
Them what they need to survive.
Perhaps we should pity them now,
They show us their child-like tears
And fear in such thundering ways.
The whispering spirits will soon become silent
Now knowing the strength they have gained.
But when man makes a weapon
Straight out of the mountain
He doesn't owe anything back to a fly.
Worn down souls prefer wooden holes
Because they can't see the stains
From their unholy war and they
Need to hear buzzing to brighten their
Eyes and coax them back to the firing lines.
No longer can trail guides pretend to be
Nature or airline pilots proclaim they are
Sky. The middleman may make all
The money but we want the poor
To power our lives.
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