To trade for death and change.
It seems to me this human race is nearing to an end,
A red horizon barreling over brooding skys,
And when these people round the bend,
They’ll see the anger in our eyes,
No net or untied rope is snarred,
For blunter knives will fly today,
And when the new verdict is aired,
Even children won’t be stayed,
Productive means are well and good,
Taken just with sugar and salt,
Trading tact for stone and wood,
But never once was it ‘their’ fault.
So dance and sing you poorer lot,
And fight the wars you’ve often fought,
Claiming rights and lefts were thought
to bring an end, but have surely not.
This life and mind is all we have,
To stumble, fumble over words,
But ever upward will we stab,
Till no race is run in heards.