They gather 'round
the mountainous pile
it's towering
to them
it's frightening

Books
Books
Cascades of books
Pages upon pages of
ideas
knowledge
They despise these words
they hide them in dark corners
of their minds
Where they do not peer
where the tissue paper of their fantasy world
barely holds back the truth

They've gathered all their fears together
in the square
covered in gasoline.  The fuel of the righteous.
The medium of control and order
Now those are words they can get behind.

They stand for a moment
as if they aren't quite sure
if what they're doing is right

The moment passes
a lone cigarette flips carelessly
through the air
Bouncing off Twain
Rolling past Dickens
Before landing on the esteemed Thompson

Let there be light, indeed.

The heat given off is immense
Why wouldn't it be?
The fire is burning through ideas
A powerful fuel source
freedom of thought evaporates
with the smoke
with the smell
of burning paper
of burning leather

These righteous people
These wise people
with no emotions
but anger and hate
are suddenly alive

They roll their eyes back
into their heads in ecstacy
in hypocricy
it brings them pleasure
to destroy knowledge
and replace it
with falsehood
with lies

The pile is smoldering now
A hill of dead authors
They walk away
smiling
satisfied
satiated

It's a tough job,
defending the world
from free expression
from the burden of choice

but someone's gotta do it
as far as they're concerned
it might as well be them