If a dog were the minister how many men would attend Mass?
If Mustafa drowned his doubt in spirits would the Sheik raise up his glass?
“There must be a way to Freedom” said the man to his ball and chain
He’s been talking like he’s leaving but he just can’t get away

A bridge rail is a home for a despondent man’s soul
And a hospice, a tombstone for the living
“What do you think of the shoeless dust bowl?”
“I fear only that they’ll be forgiving.”

The flotsam from the wreckage contorts into a flower
With a floating image of a wreath reassembling every boy’s dreams
To be a hero as the villain and never to know
To be a King as a pawn for the clandestine King’s schemes.

I’ve got to march the long way
I’ve got to march against the stream
I’ve got to bathe in oil
I’ve got to march to Dixie
I’ve got to march faraway
I’ve got to march through the mushroom
I’ve got to level the concrete
I’ve got to watch cities crumble
As I maintain morality

I’ve got a gun in my pocket
It’s number two and it scribbles
It’s always cocked and loaded
It’s always firing in bursts at the quibbles

I wear a vest for protection
When I go out into the street
I don’t believe in Resurrection
For the Fat Men eating Wall meat

Amidst the strewn bullet shots I see a mirror
And the combatants aim caroms to me
I feel the pressure of the Earth’s tremor
My final thought how identically