There is a battlecry of The Hidden
Who seek to preserve their luxury.
They see themselves not as devils
As they plot The End with cakes and tea.
They are the Big Picture Men behind the scenes,
Bringing forth their bloody plan.
They sing it at dawn to the golden cages
That hold the Hope of the Ordinary Man.
Where rare birds sit and gnaw at their claws
As the corrupt pretend to read from the Book of Ages.
But bars cannot hold the mind that escapes through
Divine music and written pages.
I hear them...they shout....:
"There's too many fingers and not enough pie
Too many breathers and not enough sky
Too much excreting, we are all going to die
(and by all they mean only the ones who matter -
Themselves, and their family's and
Their amusing pet-wierdo, the mad hatter)
Unless most of them exit, the world's gonna fry!
So bring on War and Famine!
Let the fat Angel cry!
Pestilence pours poison
To the sound of Death's sigh.
We will whittle down the numbers -
We can make for Eden if we try . . . !
But it won't have the poor,
The artist and the freak.
It won't be made up of the
Good and the meek.
Let the righteous have their heaven
If that's what they seek!
The Earth and her bounty are there
To be raided while all the fluffy sheep sleep."
Money might buy you a ticket to the Moon
Money might save you from Armageddon's tomb
Money might fix you if you catch the End of Times lurgy
You might make enough to buy heaven
Using A.I. alchemical metallurgy.
But the predators who see in the short term only,
Reaping a harvest that has an end with no exit strategy
Who seek to exist in the highest degree,
A material existence where more for them means less for you and you and me,
Are sweeping like locusts with power in their jaws
Chewing up all regard for the morality of law,
Setting fires in the tropics, and poisoning the water
Hiding behind prophecy and talk show host smiles
Shaking down the future and staring down the miles
From the hallowed halls of bunkers and private jet aisles.
Sacrifice is only what they expect from other people -
Ones who live little lives making pictures
From clouds that hang over church steeples.
Dreaming of babies and picnics, and family gatherings
That carry on down generations
Wearing their grandmother's rings.
They are only little people in the eyes of the greedy
Who mock the poor by peddling addiction,
Killing them mainly with fast food and diabetes.
There's pharmaceutical drugs take out the artists
And those who seek a refuge from the chains of gravity
But all this is not enough dying to save the good ole
Juicy Georgian peach tree!
They say they see the 'big picture' but the only image
They seek is their face on some new alloyed alien currency!
A reality where they can eek out what remains of the richness of Earth
Then off they plan fly to off to find another planet to rape, pillage and curse.
At least that's what they think, but they are entirely
Too corrupt to be allowed another chance to
Either spit in or sup from that overflowing beauteous cosmic cup.
A bird has strayed from the safety of the flock.
It managed to break free from the cage
And open all the fake doors that were locked.
It's painted for paradise and it's feathered with fear.
It's eyes glisten with sadness at the state of the sum of man's years.
It distains the thermals and it withers in the rain
It was built for suffering,
It was made beautiful through pain.
The wind buffets it madly, and pulls it off up high
If you listen closely in its wake
You can hear Angels scream
And all the saints all cry.
And as the wind carries it off
To heaven knows where
Like a Phoenix it rises to a place
Where souls bind together and share.
An alien G_d sheds one solitary tear
For all of creation that will struggle and die
For the sake of willful ignorance and cruelty
And the greed of the Few
And the belief in a lie that they will ask others to prove:
Dulce et decorum est pro planète mori
It is sweet and fitting to die for one's planet
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