Walking through the trees
Dead Poets grip their "fate" filled unknown names
Wincing at the thought of the bright starlight
In a world where words lay unrecognized
Terror strikes by black bats biting
Near heels they still wish were there's
Bayonets strike ****** through their pages of white
As outside the quick rats race
Tightening a grip on the neck of the scratching poor
Could it be?
Could we see?
That this ain't the way to be?
Streets lined with hobo's holding tokens in their eyes,
Mourning mother's mock themselves in the mirror
Of their distasteful & unattractive agony
Tightening skin, burnt with pink, kills itself
While holding to the thought of love,
Holding it's own bullet & gun
Snow that once would melt
Stays hard & true
Just to see us slip, it's now having the fun
Babies cry but not a soul runs to help
As monsters squeaky clean, meekly weeping, whelp, picking at their spleen
Lean on me but know I'll let you fall
Just like my great-father's would have done
Farewell to the world, farewell to the States
Our time is eternally & regretfully done