I paced my home today.
Eighteen paces by forty-two.
Such a little plot of land,
Bigger than some, smaller than many,
But this land is my land, as Woody would say.
It’s a mean little plot on a mean little street,
In a city with little meaning these days,
Set in a belittled country.
But even here, in this not-so-purple patch,
I can hide from what is happening
I can shut the doors, draw the curtains,
Turn off the t.v. and just read.
Because I can’t bear to think about
Or to hear what they say about
Or see what they do about
The things that I used to hold dear.
It’s a car crash, a grab and smash,
By people who think they know what we need,
When the truth of it is that most of these fools
Don’t even know what we think.
I’ll tell you a truth that they don’t want to hear,
I think we’ll hear much less of them soon.
That X in the box, that big little cross,
It will crucify most of these goons.
The crusty old reds and the too moody blues
Will be yesterday’s men, and they’ve no-one to blame but themselves.
The next wave will be coloured yellow and green,
But it will just start again,
For not one will hold power so it will all fall apart,
And whenever that happens the old farts will return.
Ring no changes.
All fall down.