This is not a protest sing along

When will it end

The continuity of vitriol

The hollow disregard for innocence

We were all a little mad

Even as I sat waiting at the station

For the night bus,

There was madness and sadness tormenting the nation

Young men and women

Crawled down from rooftops to pray for redemption

Screamed in dark corners for want of protection

Were locked in their bedrooms to keep them from leaving

Plied with elixirs designed to imprison

Danced on the graves of kids who died stricken

Those who escaped before they were taken

There were artists who argued they were the reason

That revolution was not really treason

Psychopaths are either leaders or killers

Some do try to be both at one and the same time

When they write the book what they do is no crime

No one believes what we saw written in tea leaves

It takes more than stories in a world of deceivers

So many people turned into believers

By liars and butchers who sell meat for a living

Who listens to peacemakers when bloodlust is rising

The stain on the wall is the blood of the dying

The sound you can hear is the poor people crying

The lament we are wailing is an old record playing

But no one remembers

The sound of forgiveness

When poets are silent the songwriters listless

Nobody remembers

When there is no one to witness

The last of the madcaps take care of business

The fools and commanders are tied to the bedposts

Nothing I do will fulfil a purpose

When pederasts work for the needs of the children

Gain recognition for a lifetime of service

When hiding their truth behind charitable causes

Lock up their daughters to keep them from screaming

Send young boys to die before they stop weaning

Wait for the weakest to fall through the system

Keep all dissenters from talking in kitchens

Rebuilding bridges and burning their breeches

Buckskin smells of horses, dubbin and crotch sweat

Some of the cowboys are not really dead yet

But they all live with melancholia steeped in nostalgia

Are too easily smitten by the words they have written

Are carried along from the start on a handcart

As the radio plays a sad song for lovers

When the protests you hear are all Bob Dylan covers

And the requests for more money to clean up the city

Before it is washed clean of Banksy’s graffiti

The hope of a nation, the cost of survival

Will it come to an end before it goes viral

Breathe deeply and tell me, if a poet is vital

When truth is distorted by government sources

And no one can see what the rest of us notice

When rain is as red as the sun slowly setting

Protestors are shot for the crime of abetting

The birth of a new revolution

As we watch from the posh seats, the story evolving

And the starkness of darkness is caught

For the sake of production

In high resolution

How will it end when there is no restitution

Will it all come to an end

In a final solution