War Drum

colors bleeding as they fall from high

will we hang our heads, for beneath our skin

Stockholm had ripped apart our limbs

well, I saw your name on an oil can

resting sadly on a tanker's back

as the asphalt groaned, trying to hold its shape

the ground beneath was screaming out in pain

and it smelt of rain

just above the ground

clinging to the clouds

we were sputtering out,

it was a gruesome sound,

a post-modern war drum

it's a candidate, a highway crime,

a ballot punched down the party line

is it red or blue that bleeds through you?

it's a sweeping disease, and yeah, you've got it, too

because I saw your name on an empty grave

the dirt was broken just yesterday

there was a well-dressed thief at the podium

he was moving his lips, he was beating the drum

and though it filled our lungs

and it turned them grey,

we all stood in place

because we hate the taste,

but we love the way

that it makes us feel

for a while, anyway