The day is fragile
A strand of hair stretched taut between scissor blades
There is rebellion in the air

They sing of it in the streets
And in the bars
Chant rebel marches at their parties
With a fire, a passion
voices raised as one
These people will lead the rebellion

They must

It is plastered across the TV
The bough is about to break
Always on the brink
And the singing grows louder with the telling

But the rebels never come
Their songs peter out like a waif
Leaving only rags and dreams behind
And drifts away with the changing winds