Painting Seoul
Ours is one of novelty.
A freedom and reality unreal.
We have left the far east to sit comfortably in Macedon,
Purging the Babylon we once cherished.
Blood moons and acid rain are our frontiers.
We face them with out fear...
And we are possesed.
No reverence to the enemy, as he lives in us all.
But our closeness to these evils is such that we know nothing of them.
Little tumors that pop and blister numbly against the floor as we roll around like pigs in the mud,
Rapped snuggly in our patriotism and singleness of purpose.
To those who have bathed in this blood,
Respect from me you won't have.
Gund for hire like the punks you hanged in Sams summer time game.
"Freak! Freak! String him up!"
I asked not for this blood, and would still give it back.
Who can remember the blood of the Byzantine?
Who still dies for the great Anglo Virgin?
Death for death,
Life......for death.
Again I find myself crossing a river,
And both sides look the same.
Oh God, where have you taken us?
To the land that you forgot?
Carry me once more from this river delta, flooded by the tears of Saigon,
To a land where the rivers don't run.
Sit me down, off of your shoulders with the GI's whose veins have run dry.
Take their flags and red badges back and dam up that river...we won't need them where we're going.
To fast with satisfaction, in the nation of the soul.
A freedom and reality unreal.
We have left the far east to sit comfortably in Macedon,
Purging the Babylon we once cherished.
Blood moons and acid rain are our frontiers.
We face them with out fear...
And we are possesed.
No reverence to the enemy, as he lives in us all.
But our closeness to these evils is such that we know nothing of them.
Little tumors that pop and blister numbly against the floor as we roll around like pigs in the mud,
Rapped snuggly in our patriotism and singleness of purpose.
To those who have bathed in this blood,
Respect from me you won't have.
Gund for hire like the punks you hanged in Sams summer time game.
"Freak! Freak! String him up!"
I asked not for this blood, and would still give it back.
Who can remember the blood of the Byzantine?
Who still dies for the great Anglo Virgin?
Death for death,
Life......for death.
Again I find myself crossing a river,
And both sides look the same.
Oh God, where have you taken us?
To the land that you forgot?
Carry me once more from this river delta, flooded by the tears of Saigon,
To a land where the rivers don't run.
Sit me down, off of your shoulders with the GI's whose veins have run dry.
Take their flags and red badges back and dam up that river...we won't need them where we're going.
To fast with satisfaction, in the nation of the soul.