Here we are inhaling dust
Fall-out from the winds of quarrel
Nothing more to say right now
No olive branch or perfumed laurel
No good spitting blood right now
We need a slow transfusion
We’ll have to stare until the aftermath
Becomes transition or confusion
Weak until the springtime comes
Far too cold for more hot air
It won’t be long before the change of tune
Becomes delight or deep despair
It’s clear the mandate given
Is a blank cheque from us guys
Beneath the microscope of worth
We trust there are many less lies
No comments:
Post a Comment