Science Fiction (?)
Pour out over the wall, you rolling visions kept at bay by concrete barbed wire machine gun nests weird pumps made by the Army Corps of Engineers you fucking name it. They seek respite from the wall in Palestine. They sought respite from the wall in Berlin. You sympathize with them, Sam Sapirstein, but why the fuck can't you turn this all discerning eye of political empathy on yourself? That which is far on the horizon is nothing-NOTHING!- when compared to the bigness of small things.
I am become the intellectual asshole, the destroyer of worlds.
(to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic)
It is we who think up theories and dissolve the ones below
After we have taken power and on ourselves the crown bestow
We dig out minor errors as we wield our platinum hoe
The Great are marching on
Asher Roth is an Anarchist with a particle cannon.
He lives in an old space station that, as a young man, he helped seize from Astraco. Vi lang o vi lang...
Now they are under attack by the Poor Christian Fellows of Ganymede.
They have Gauss rifles mass driver orbital bombardment platforms plasma cannons when I went to the town meeting I couldn't keep track when Li Hongzhi showed us just how powerful their fleet is. Oysh!
But we'll get them. We scared off General Huang with a guitar made out of old elevator repair tools. A couple of dirge singing idiots should be no problem.
The kid with the huge glasses thinks the Crusaider's shapenote singing tradition might lend insight into their tactics at which point I told him to go to hell. Who the fuck do you think you are? We have 12 hours before they're in range. And they're not going to wipe us out with a hyper-velocity dildo they're boarding us you little schmuck so they can kill us the hard way because they want holy death to be close and terrible. I've got ten kids who volunteered to guard the entry hatch. I think of my own son when I see the dull red lights of the service shafts reflect back at me from their resigned eyes. They hide the true extent of their terror by acting as though finals week has prepared them for this. In all likelihood they're gonna die, and you lecture me on shape note singing? Mazel tov! You've got it figured out you fucking little insect. They're dying and you're thinking of music. Compose a funeral song while you're at it you...Fransn zol esn zayn layb!
Okay, I didn't mean that but listen, kiddo, the revolution won't come from books. I fight trained marines and win because I have the will, kiddo, the will (and they're not expecting mining tools as weapons), and you think musicology will get us through this? Great. Go play the piano and analyze some early 21st century post punk or whatever you kids study in college.
I need this like a loch in kup. Get behind the barricade and wait for Them to come.
But I'll give you credit for the Sima Yi trick. Elevator parts. Oy vey.