all the tired troops in a trance

At the mouth of the river, that's where the action is
And on the beaches
And at landing strips, along the transportation and communication routes, since time 's been performing rigor mortis
The big mouthed dogs circle the court, disappear and reappear with prey, the king in stitches.

On Google Earth it all looks so manipulable
The world on a screen expanded by dreams.
When the boots hit the beach the philosophies get mutable
And so they should, it seems, by the sound of the screams.

Cities sprung up teeming with, souls, for lack of a better word
All nerves and nuance, their saving grace is when they get up to dance
Spotlights turned off, and you can't verify anything you've heard
There's been a delay, all the tired troops in a trance.

By the miracle of all the tired televisions turned off similtaneously,
Stretching out the seasons , giving more time for surfing the senses, ever so assiduously.