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under the parasol, the magistrate sings the madrigal and shields his face |
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from the man who sells his madness by way of the gun - |
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outside the manner yard on the crippled street |
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young girls sell their bodies for bread to eat |
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stare the corner down and say so we meet again |
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but somewhere the people rise and break out in song |
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their voices are carrying them, and i would but the feet on my souls are |
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gone from the night they came in |
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they came in trucks with their iron wrath |
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driving this country to it's dying breath |
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but it's never enough for the tyrant and his cattle |
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let it go |
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and there he sits, the self-crowned-king, in his bird bath, just rearranging his things |
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when he hears the songs high over head |
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he glares at the sky in his disbelief |
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throws a fit and splashes the bath empty and orders his generals to aim higher |
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let it go |
