We work at three
'til the last of moons
crumbles in the sea.
We work for thee:
we work at noon.
Our life's a noun
our love's a crown
for bitter hell spawn
from some tortured
simple little sounds
of babies and fingers
and nails - not found.

Hush, now.

Our love stand still
our job's our will
far from secret thrills
we'll buy your will -
and even your father's
white ancient windmill.

It's a strange circuitry
our nature - ain't it?

Jamal doesn't talk:
he's been lying on
our friendly ground
'til we start to walk
'til he look like chalk.

Jamal, Jamal!,
what have you done?

You used to run free
with your brothers,
your sisters and me
- with the sirens happily
and merrily on the beach,
the Sun did set and you
and me and Ahmed
smoked and prayed
for a better day yet
you sold your soul
to the corporation
to the inflammation
to the ignorant creation
to the culture-starvation
// and you drink coffee
you go out at night
with your fine Armani suit
with your firing gun shoot
with your babbling babbling
lil' baby girl ain't a baby no mo'
lil' baby girl ain't a baby no mo'
she shoot she shoot she shoot
- to make the point is moot.

Where is your ancient fire?
Where is your cool, laid-back
tongue that spoke of Youth?
Where are your tambourines
and wings and strings and flutes?

They finished shooting the sky.
They finished. They finished.
The war is over. Glory hallelujah!
Your wife is gone. Her baby, too…
Now you don't know
how to walk at night
as you don't remember
nightmares of a butterfly.

You don't remember
nightmares of a butterfly
you don't remember
nightmares of a butterfly.