The worthless wallet sized speeches they call salvation
Are the niave astronaut dreams of a balding young boy
Who never realized the binding would break if you
Hit the nail with the end of the book. Stop the presses
Permanently and fire those writers who've never seen
Real death; they are the descendants of thieves
Who built empty nation upon empty nation by picking
Rocks from the ocean and pretending they're pearls.
I say we drown them now in their own ink and
Pull out the pages they glued back in so
There can be no nation without action of hand.
If art is imitation then we must keep painting
With brand new colors, to brighten the eyes
Of that beautiful girl.
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