The waves hit the beach , its April
The skies are filled with snowbirds
They fly , avoiding the vultures putting the poor to their peril
They look but they have no words.
War rips the files from human beings
But the humanness remains
Those who can touch it, in the end beat the great imperial machine
And de-link their chains.
The mother of all misery is a mental invention
Self taught, with materials supplied by socio economic bomblets
That is, laws and cultural mores, especially the interpretations that are too shameful to mention
Got everyone digging in their own debt
The august wisdom is earnest, and the chambers chill
Let's everybody have a street party down in Brazil.
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