If the beat of the drum
Is the rolling thunder,
And the lull of the flute
Is cheap defense,
How does the music keep me
Asleep inside?
Perhaps the conductor
Is a wicked protector.
And the orchestra summons
The wayward ******.
So look me in the eye
And sing the songs.
My own civil war was right all along.
Because only on the inside,
War is song.