What are you going to do, Poet?
Pen hot words in the open air?

The winds will carry them off,
My fortress will rumble on and on.

And what will you do, Scientist?
I am the one with the gun.

I will place a sanction on your head
If ever it won't feed my metal stomach.

Far off, in government buildings
They house the organs of a secret beast
And I am growing certain there is coordinated effort
To sterilize the love of people like me.

Here I contemplate the possibility of representatives
And I ponder their fates:
Does my hero meet untimely end
In these evil united states?

A sad, sad legacy left by poets
This is one for the groaning heap
They'll burn it, oh-- they'll burn it all
And how will I find sleep?