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Right hand raised. The left plants stickers - picking out the deviant. A |
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choice of colours, inclinations, factions that see only red. He wants them |
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dead. He kills them in his mirror when it's dark... And when he thinks that |
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no-one is looking he spreads the spraypaint and leaves his mark. Swastikas |
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shout out from walls, they're tattooed on a million fists. Clenched |
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together, safe in numbers... waving from the precipice. Fodder! Plod on |
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down your icy path... A cannon is waiting for the fodder. Enlightenment |
|
comes with a blast. A bang. A bangabangabang... |
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Another place. A different story. Fingers play with stale cigars. Business |
|
creeks, the warehouse leaks, the chairman sold his daughter's car. He's |
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reading charts and sharpening knives for cutting when the time seems right - |
|
for him alone. No pause for mercy if the victim's out of sight. |
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Equality is a word for cranks to shout out as the batons swing. It's |
|
beautiful in theory... he knows it's not for him. He's got his fodder! |
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In higher places, clocks chime for the meeting of the lords. They stay |
|
discreet as guilty secrets cause no shame behind closed doors. A portion for |
|
the megabomb. A portion for the queen... can't forget the army or the law |
|
'cos they have to keep the cities clean. And sure they know they'll get |
|
their way as protests echo from the streets. (The blood is thicker from the |
|
streets) His hired guns and sheets of armor gives them shelter through the |
|
heat! The fodder... |
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But there are other bullets, other walls, where justice cries in shiny red. |
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Where reason dies and passion burns persuasion's just a hole in the head. |
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Purges after midnight... There's no discretion in the mass. A volley. A |
|
silence as they cover up the mess. |
|
Don't kid yourself. You're civilized - it could happen anywhere. |
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In choking cities, steaming jungles... maybe even here. |
