When the mountain don't come to the man with the gun
he blows it up with some
plastic explosives.

This leap of faith
This placing of trust
this prophet who sleeps must be dreaming of Christmas or whatever it is that keeps Prophets from waking.

I keep taking the tablets, but Moses being angry at me
refuses to part with the red sea and so
left in the land of a thousand and one,
where the plagues of my forefathers
linger,
I go on.

No mountains for me,
No Messiah who'll be
a deadweight
no walk on the wild side of the water where fish glide so
effortlessly.

In a state of a state in which I am stateless I stare,
the prophet, a wise man who never goes there
looks at me with the eyes of the daughters of eons, through
the eyes of chameleons.

The mountains will crumble anyway
whatever the men with the guns do or say
whatever the prophet  and in who's pay he might be
The mountains will crumble anyway.