What were the temples
Of the tribes, Judea
Brothels of slave Shepards
Of child lovers
And Christiandom was it's continuation, post revolt
Back it all goes back to Rome
Further back than that
To Greece
But ultimately the nomads who settled
In the land we call Egypt
These are the freaks
The monsters throughout history
Who eat of their own young and
Lay with them
Who manipulated what were the Pagans
Who continued on slavery, after the
End of its practice.
Cybele & Attis,
The cults that taught
Drugging as a tool
To manipulate behavior
Bend the rules, in their favor
Far off in Europe and since
The civil war, in America
And it was Truman's gang
That hijacked us
They have been hijacking
Various belief and countries,
For as long as there have been them.
We got back control
With some of us Americans getting in
And then they shot that young man
Going through Dallas, Texas
And ever since, it has been
Foreign elements pulling strings
Foul false Americans
Because they made of us
Of our conservative society
One of shame, one of privacy
Where normal people like you and me
Are afraid to speak out for what is right
In the face of ignorance
In the stead of savagery
They blackmailed and extorted our politicians
Right before our very eyes
I tell you, wake up
Be political, and only trust Americans
Including our southern siblings
Common people like us
Who merely wish to live free lives

ta ma a la a na
my love for you is forever

tassa na aa aa aa ai ah
a sea that the storm starts to sway


ta ma nee a ma na sa ma nee
my eyes the colour of storm rose

ta stata ma no al la nee
my lips pink like a peony


ta ma ar aa aa aa ma ma
and as my eyes start to flutter

ta ma na da la oo ah la nah
the clouds all soft like the mist


ta ma na ah la na ah la me
i laugh at the song of your kisses

da sa ma ah la
surrender to bliss.

the highway on which you escape
has a placard, green with destinations:
90 miles, 140

the 50 asphalt measures between the two
raw with hope, or despair, depending on who is there, flying past stubborn mesquite, doomed steers, and sagging shacks with graveyard stories

you always return,
not having found what
you never lost

the sign coming back
on the same tarred trail
tells how many there are, of you,
one hundred thousand, six hundred, forty two
though you may be only one who knew
you departed, maybe

tomorrow another you
will crank the engine and turn the wheel,
accelerate while you still can, until your gas
burns out, or the road rips a bald tire,
a ruptured reminder you can't
leave it all behind