Turf War

The fight that brews inside my head

Gathers up to force and might

I stammer with intention

And the knowing of what is right

 

Who are we all in this dreaded, apocalyptic day?

With the gloss of a better tomorrow

Well it’s just something they just say

 

Whoa girl! Whoa girl! Whoa girl!

See the flowers and the trees

Idle your strong engine

Get down upon your knees

Let us buy you with some flattery

We will get you everywhere indeed

 

We can pull apart your rage

And you can live like a song bird

In a tinny tiny cage

 

The cage paid for by rich men

The song a patriotic wail

You may sing up to the heavens

But you’re feet in bought off hell

 

Who dares to severe ties?

From the thousand money lies?

 

Some kiss the lips of demons

You know just what I mean

The wing tipped little monster

Who is pissing in our streams

 

His suits and ties of tyranny

Reeks havoc on our destiny

as if the very moon we owned

He grabbed it for himself alone

 

Then with his gaping gasping mouth

In our over heated June

he dons some tights and ballet shoes

as he whacks off a charming tune

 

(then plays the art buffoon)

 

oh quiet little missy

there’s

a party down the street

clinking champangne glasses

and something great to eat !

Where checks they can be written

but check your mind as well !!

run go party up to heaven

with the golden caring swells

 

now all together please

on the count of three!!!!

All together please on the count of three!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!weeeeeeeeee!!

 

Sing ring around a rosy

and life is la de da

With things to do and places great

And clothes and food to thrill (louder)

Let’s toast to art and money

And houses on a hill

And yachts all in the harbor

And wine up to

Our fill

Forget we’re fucked and fucked again

But not against our will