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.War.
© 2008 Tyriq Plummer
This is tax evasion in a third world nation.
Those bombs are getting restless and losing their patience.
Radio silence the violence and join in a vigil,
vigilantly setting your .50 cals on the windowsill.
Breakout of chicken pox and smallpox slay red fox,
but walls burn, their roofs burn, its our turn to stop and learn.
I'll try to touch the sky with my smokestacks,
my crooked back,
by moonlight, I swear that I'll be back.
With the tracer rounds that I found.
build yourself a compound.
A
complex in context of a declaration.
Independence stated clearly in a declaration.
The right revoked to make any declarations.
Of our rights, this is a clear and present violation.
Station your troops by the flag at the paramount,
Take inventory of the ammunition, what's the amount?
Cavalry coming on an army of mounts,
But everyone's dying fruitlessly,
It's time for us to bounce.
I'm out on a limb,
To revoke the privileges of the underprivileged.
Their angst provoked by sending messages undelivered.
What about them?
The enemy we're being ravaged by?
This extraneous existence is saying goodbye.
In morse code.
Mortar shells provide the beat for a violent ode.
Take up the load of dead bodies. Reload.
Up on your toes.
Storm their abode.
Take the stronghold With longbows,
And maybe we'll kill foes.
Swords against AK-47s,
and M1-A1s,
Air Strike squadrons,
and concrete pylons.
We fight on with lions and bears at our backs.
We wear blackened jackets to protect us from flak.
Lost in the fog of war.
Which way takes us back?
Back to the land where the sky is cracked.
The land where our very existence is hacked.
Reprogrammed to believe the news crews.
All they ever show is what can be used
For personal gain.
They take others' pain,
and frame them in a cathode array.
Showing sandstorms and trials,
Test-tube baby vials.
And the miles of style they style us to.
Called stereotypes and...
This is not a through street,
soon enough you'll come to a dead end,
Where the silver lining the clouds turns to coal.
At the same time the forces meet,
there will be nothing but a red blend,
of the thousands of souls that died for black gold.
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