| Catching whispers on the phone
|
| But the whispers get away.
|
| Making entries in our diaries
|
| With all the things we think they say.
|
| Can you hear it?
|
| I can’t hear it!
|
| Can you see it?
|
| I can’t see it!
|
| We’ve been feeding the vermin,
|
| Now they’re hanging around.
|
| Can’t we take back the sermon
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| That we tossed to the crowd?
|
| Obsessed with the excess
|
| But stuffed with a crumb.
|
| The lessons progress less
|
| As professors succumb.
|
| They’re craving confusion
|
| When starved of sense
|
| And graven confusion
|
| Has been heaven sent.
|
| Can you do it?
|
| I can’t do it!
|
| This is the way the sick people play:
|
| Hands in their pockets, goose bumps on display.
|
| This is the way the well people drink:
|
| Mouths on the spigots of the sick people’s sink.
|
| In the town square,
|
| In the city hall,
|
| In the war room,
|
| On a conference call,
|
| They set the date to drop the bomb
|
| And sit and wait with perfect calm.
|
| I wanna do it!
|
| If you call this living,
|
| If you call that love,
|
| If you’d call the cops before God above,
|
| If you’d call the cops before God below,
|
| If you call this culture,
|
| Then I think you’ll know,
|
| The stone cold con and the 6−6-6,
|
| We’re trading our eyeballs in for asterisks.
|
| We’re trading our idols in for rapprochement.
|
| We’re burning the bridges that we’re crossing on.
|
| I wanna do it! |