There's a Revolution coming,
The boots are on the streets;
It's calling from the graves,
We're stirring from our sleep.
There's a hunger in the eyes;
The troops are on their feet.
The revolutions's coming
And the enemy's in retreat.

The mob appeal
Is running lights,
Towered minions
Join the fight
To rein in one percent
From their ***** heights.
Desks in towers,
Facades of power,
Will tumble to defeat.
The gravity of greed
Will drag them through the streets.

The bell at four
Will sound no more;
The chorus chants
For a holy war,
For salvation,
Then, for some more.

There's a revolution
On the way,
We'll re-write the laws,
We'll line up the Romanovs,
And shake down all the Shahs.
There's a revolution coming
And it's coming
With just cause.

on Stage
a peacock of makeup  
the comedian
bating thunderous uproar
knighting fury
turning humour over the belfries
of the overcharged assemblage

he fouls with them
utilizing his vile material
putting together ideas that no brain wants scribe
visuals
you create yourself
(but
your twist at his bidding)
you become broken down and ******
applied apart by his gagging speech
and his splintering costumes of mood

the comedian builds from this
until rage
and ruptures of relief
integrate...

a berserk laughter is result
kettled in the mob reaction
a collective convulsion
a need
more than a mirth
japes dressed in death
have foraged a credible rebirth

his soldiers attired
he has seized his corps of souls
his Mad recruits of Chaos
the comedian pulls out a plastic toy Sabre  
and directs the revulsion
(the Grand Prank)
in a charge against
the wealthy neighbours

Consumed by the inevitable End
I have chosen to die on the horizon
So no one can grieve for its illusion.

Time will always raise The Sun
Even when there are no eyes to see it,
No instruments to measure it.

It's we who create The End, mould it,
To fit in the frame of our own perspective -
A complete work of art.

So, why does the end never fully satisfy?
Because we know, without knowing, it is a lie
The End is such because someone draws a line
And to that end, we are all doing time,
Condemned by a fact:
That we will die.

Our sense of Time imprisons us
With the understanding that
Our sense of it will end.

And that leaves us here, with a choice:
I choose to die on the horizon,
Free, creating my own beautiful End,

Consumed.

I’m breaking down along with our economy
and all around they only want more from me.
The end of my rope but I’ve been tethering,
searching out hope but it’s straining and weathering.
Who cares? There’s nothing good to find,
the never ending stairs within my mind,
I’ve kept going, without knowing,
and there’s no result showing.

If you ask me what I’ve wanted the most,
it’s to destroy this parasite; I’m not much of a host.
I’m just waiting, debating
and operating almost like a robot.
I walk alone, I have no home.

I think I’ll crash if I continue going at this rate,
or maybe just break down; it’s still up for debate.
It seems like everyone in the world is ******* me
except for the select few who I wouldn’t mind *******.
Wouldn’t it be exciting for our system to start igniting?
But you know we’d foot the bill
‘cause we’re paying them still.
They crave our money and vote but don’t care to hear us speak,
so my sincerest thanks for letting me work to barely eat.

If you ask me what I’ve wanted the most,
it’s to have an outside life; this routine’s made me a ghost.
It’s been draining, to be maintaining
this training to become a robot.

If you were to ask what our Country needed the most,
it’s lower taxes and more production from East to West coast.
We’re all slaving, and behaving
for laboursaving just like a robot.
I’m not alone, I notice each clone.

The glass on the stone, the peace in her eyes.
The emotion of her soul, and the serenity in her mind.
The way she speaks, of utter conscience.
The way she perceives, of deep imagination.
Holds her words in, and grasps morality.
Holds her tongue, and justifies her thoughts.
An angel, a goddess, of silky wavy locks and intelligence.
She speaks of wisdom, philosophy, greatness.
...
She speaks revolution.