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When the Bombs Have All Burst
cemetery dreams ignite
the haunting prose I now recite
if the whole world hates you, you must be right
sometimes its hard to stay strong
venoms laces the vultures sweat
poor man faces the bankers debt
if the opposite of right is left
must left always be wrong
Its all just a stunt disguised in lace
its all a game thats void of grace
the wisest man can not erase
histories dark age
when evil yet undistracted
emporers quickly enacted
absurd laws which soon attracted
hysteria and rage
and when the bombs have all burst
will it satisfy the thirst
of the tyrants greed and need for bloodshed
and when the crowds have dispersed
will the powers converse
to decide whose gonna get it next
the baby boomer all but broken
delivers words softly spoken
offers up a tarnished token
of days of revolution
the homeless man steals bread
the wealthy man whose always ahead
will judge you every chance he gets
and blame you for pollution
the lone robin glides on air
half asleep yet still aware
the evil is everywhere
so he keeps one eye open
wheel spinning while on fire
and on the ground the mouthless quoir
sings songs to left them a little higher
or at least thats what they're hopin'
and when the bombs have all burst
tell me which will hurt worse
the dying child or his mothers teardrops
in a land thats been cursed
slowly moving in reverse
sometimes I wonder when will the fear stop
the prestigious titles which are bestowed
and all the worthless money owed
won't mean a thing when the world explodes
or so its written
I ride the back of a half starved horse
I sympathize with hobo's forced
to let life run its pathetic course
while the rich man is sittin'
on chrome plated seats which cost about
half the price of my entire house
if I could I'd be sure to douse
they're mansions with gasoline
and burn the bastards to the ground
look to make sure noones around
ride off to the very next town
and repeat the whole routine
When the bombs have all burst
we'll see a colorful hearse
but we'll never know just why we have to see it
and the king so perverse
will count a never-ending purse
while another man dies, sometimes I just can't believe it
In the broken womb of artists dreams
the pauper stands in faded jeans
music is his only means
to cure the world sorrow
denouncing vile noblemen
through ancient Mahayana zen
with a lovers heart and poets pen
in a coat he had to borrow
raindrops from the renegade
storm shall promptly cascade
a hurricane to end charades
of deception
and the common mans sun will shine
a blinding light so divine
to grant the pesants peace of mind
and eternal contentment
