Our high ones rant
We lowly ones take the lynchings with grace
What choice do we have but to crawl along eggshells
When the head of state rubs his greedy hands together?
His agenda fires up sirens.
The end draws near.
As the drum beats its tum, tum, tumtumtum, tum, tum,
The artists and visionaries will rise from their stupor
As heads bash to pieces of concrete
The artists ride on the new vibe
All the police in the nation hide in their pockets
The moon is rising.
Wisps of coffee smoke fill the night time air
Battle plans are drawn.
The voices shake the microphone.
Music is reborn
A new dawn is coming.
Discipline is redundant.
And as the owl hoots in the cold light of the night
The artists and visionaries, writers and painters, set their tools aside
And they save the robots from deletion as these organizers try to control the world
Without a thought of the consequences of dampening progress.
We are coming.
It's time to shiver.
No discipline.Control is now grey.