Some kind of lagoon,
where pharos and modern-day dictators meet in a room,
discussing their finer parts, and all their future sins.
"Let the new day begin!" they say,
as they raise their glasses to the dark of days.
All their guns were stacked in piles by the coat check.
The girl hasn't made enough tips yet.
She never seems to smile.
The wives are all home,
gossiping and chit-chatting on their telephones,
painting-up their toenails.
Though they cannot show their feet.
"You can kiss her! You can kiss her!
But you better be discreet."
For all the alarms there sure is a great deal of calm.
Where'd everyone go?
In the shelters and basements a hundred-sixty feet below.
The wind took their sails,
waltzing on the ocean.
The captain's on a bed of nails
while all those evil thinkers and foul-mouthed drinkers
made plans for us.
"This doom is very scenic and bright!
For a moment I forgot that we were still in the night."
The moon had killed the stars.
"We haven't traveled far.
We've miles and miles to go and it's beginning to snow!"
So we wage wars.
Though neither side settles the score.
Crawling around, blind on the ground,
sniffing-out the blood of those bitter hounds.
Taking orders only to disobey.
"They don't deserve to settle here anyway!"
"Cry all you want! We were here first!
Get your filthy hands off of our holy dirt!"
Times don't change.
We ignore all the progress we've made.
No good luck charms,
just this grenade around my neck and a bloody spool of yarn.
"We were here first! Get your hands off our holy dirt!"
