Stop!
You're hurting her!
You ******* monsters, can't you see
you're all covered in blood!
Don't you hear her pleading?
Stop!
You ******* *******!
Stop cutting her,
and ******* in her face,
she's ******* choking,
take your hand off her throat.
Stop ****** my mother,
you inhumane fiends!
Can't you see?
She's your mother too.

The boys in tan,
gun in hand,
marching two by two.
The dogs of war,
trod across the sand,
they know not what they do.
The man in the high chair,
sends a message through the air,
this message isn't new.
It's us or them boys,
show them your new toys,
Turn their ancient cities,
and verdant fields,
into a blood and shrapnel stew.
Death is the name of the game,
yeah, I guess it is a shame,
but, what else can you do?
The pigs need their truffle feast,
this is the nature of the beast,
every bullet aids the turning of the *****.
You are the boys in tan,
and when foreign threats are removed,
come back home,
join the boys in blue,
and put your brothers beneath the boot.
You are the soul of civilization,
without you everything would crumble,
quicker than a foreign regime,
or the ranks of peaceful protesters,
who scatter like the sheep they are,
as you slam the baton down,
and open your mouth,
to receive your jerky treat.

The boy ran through the fields,
His kite blazing like a comet
In the hot summer of yesterday.
Flying through the tall grass,
An open mouth, a smile held fast,
He danced, and leaped, and span away;
Safe in youth and come what may.

The day moves on.

The wind swept hard across the fields,
The kite bucking against the strain,
A twist and tear in the summer day.
The boy turned, distraught,
To watch his youth fall in thought.
He frowned, and wept, and turned away;
The kite lay broken amongst the hay.

The day moves on.

He turned to home, a sad retreat,
Replacing his steps along the path
He carved across the summer day.
A bird flies across the run,
Feathers flirting in the sun.
He turns and runs, a smile again,
And doesn’t see the hidden pain.

The day moves on.

A flying foot is sliced and pierced,
A scream of pain splits the fields
And the bird flies so fast away.
The discarded wire, the ill placed thought,
With no care for what it’s caught,
Leaves years of scars for a man to pay
And dream the loss of yesterday.

That's because they don't want you to.
Because, if you did, they would be done for.
Nothing scares a wolf more
than 6 billion sheep, with razor sharp teeth.
Who can see through the false fleece
that the wolf has been hiding beneath
since before your mother's mother was born.

I would rather a leader
who is willing to laugh in the face
of his enemies,
as they spread their ridiculous lies.
Than a teleprompter reading Eunech,
with empty space between his thighs.

The cancer has spread too far,
the mass is too massive to be excised.
The chemo bag is secretly filled with carcinogens.
The pills they charge us a fortune for
are only placebos.
The last doctor died in 1963,
and the man in the white scrubs,
who rubs your hand, and says it will all be alright
is a card carrying servant
of the very cancer he professes to fight.
Nighty-Night little ones,
its time to turn out the light.

When they refuse to grab the rope
you've thrown down to them,
the only other way to help them out of the pit
is to climb down into it with them,
and let them climb out on your shoulders.
The question then becomes,
when they make it out
will they toss a rope in after you?
And if they do, will you grab it?