You’ll miss it when it comes. You’ll be making plans while we’re stringing drums and when the beat hits you’ll be arse deep in a pool of accounting measures. Enough breathing to see us dancing by. You and the enemies of freedom have been knocking at the gate and in our irony we winced and shocked at the havoc you could wreak with a pen and an ignorance at what numbers could do, or systems multiply. This was the arrogant rightness of the victors now crumbling to make victors of us all.
You and the enemies of freedom. Left. Right. Left. Right. Are marching on to war and battles with string bands; the repression of rainbows and scars that bled for the love of you are opening furiously now and unable to bow we blink and see you for who you really are. Brother. Though you tried to quell that instinct and suppress us in the stink, Brother, we’re fighting you with a capacity to choose along a different line.
Without banks and less corruption, without malls and more trees. Along lines that call for the all and not the single, for the flow and not the atom. A wavicle is a pun you saw the wrong side of. Our quantum leap is to see the every side and in your scrutiny you missed the obvious.
Beautiful man, with a snarl when I came to greet you, we are coming and the tide is coming that will take you and the enemies from the gates and grapes of wrath will burst asunder on our thunder of trumpets, gongs and box drums, steel guitars and folk violins.
You and the enemies of freedom live last and without.