Now as we watch our gardens darken
the singers that we should have been are silent
The light eludes the rash and holy alike
Our once held love is lost by hands slack as rags
tarnished by the filth of coins
Our fallen instruments rot on the ground
The fools of God have won the day
Every flowery tree is dead
And some cry in the bitter snow
And some giggle with the pimps in a hangman's bed
The last sun is about to set on a sea of blood
Prisoners grind themselves raw against the bars
A million get up on the cross
while a million bang the nails in
We are on the wheel of murder and of hunger
fear and pain
We have lost our spirit, our reason and our world
Our 'savage' beasts are locked inside
In our name it is done
We do nothing to stop it except salute our own consumption
Not once did we sing out for life
We conquered all, put hate on every face
As we celebrate the final victory
the doomed bay out their righteous marks
winners in a butchers race
This was a reworking of a poem called Lament for the makers of songs by Kenneth Patchen
who I still consider to be one of the most honest voices of 20th century American literature
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