The old songs don’t feel right
wrong key, out of tune
somebody wake Sinatra
reclaim these wayward melodies
*My Way, New York
New York*
seat of the Queen
a gilded new King
everything he touches
Gold
money equals tower
Freudian crystal skyscrapers
the fitting measure
of a brittle man
who has not strength
to speak the truth
recites instead from
a book of fables
the moral to every one
*those in glass houses
shouldn’t throw stones*
the town crier proclaims
the truth does not matter
no one cares
hold tight that red hat
lest it be snatched
by a rebellious wind
see it now, a symbol
framed in white and blue
rising above the crowd
boots on the ground speak
*shiny brass buttons
on a pert military coat
don’t a revolutionary make*
the peddler of lies is just
a liar once-removed
“alternative facts”
brash fabrications
with a fancy semantic bow
such a pretty package
such a pretty family
the biggest crowd
in all of history
let the whole world
Witness
this most
perfect union
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
The old songs don’t feel right
wrong key, out of tune
somebody wake Sinatra
reclaim these wayward melodies
*My Way, New York
New York*
seat of the Queen
a gilded new King
everything he touches
Gold
money equals tower
Freudian crystal skyscrapers
the fitting measure
of a brittle man
who has not strength
to speak the truth
recites instead from
a book of fables
the moral to every one
*those in glass houses
shouldn’t throw stones*
the town crier proclaims
the truth does not matter
no one cares
hold tight that red hat
lest it be snatched
by a rebellious wind
see it now, a symbol
framed in white and blue
rising above the crowd
boots on the ground speak
*shiny brass buttons
on a pert military coat
don’t a revolutionary make*
the peddler of lies is just
a liar once-removed
“alternative facts”
brash fabrications
with a fancy semantic bow
such a pretty package
such a pretty family
the biggest crowd
in all of history
let the whole world
Witness
this most
perfect union
