There is a storm
That is turning hearts into story tellers
And Wise elders chanting an ode to sadness
Hoping its fists could claw a way out
Of their sullen eyes and stretch just far enough
To polish the clouded thoughts of quiescent beings

A storm of gray splatters on otherwise perfectly blue skies
Filled with reflections of first school days, and Makeshift street stadiums
A storm of children turned into ghosts
Haunting the mausoleums that these streets have become
As the gray splatters slowly turned into ****** ones
And the trust of men was put into guns
Instead of other humans
As though cold lifeless metal
Could compete with a beating heart
As though men who happen to be white
Are most appropriate to decide who wins the battle
No body wins the battle, No body wins in war
There are only rubbles, and catacombs
For the comfortable ones, who convinced themselves
That they were bestowing favors on the dying


Fleeing death is apparently not a good enough reason
To be deserving of a land that was never even ours
And mourning little boys found on shores
is only good until the hashtag is out of season

so you tell me, does sadness reside in the pity
of a heart seeking reassurance of its goodness
or does it surrender when it meets the resilience
of children who made their roofs out of starry nights

The Head is dead
Not much to be said.
We jump and wave,
Jump and wave.

The Head is dead
No tears be shed.
We jump and wave,
Jump and wave.

My only love disposed of by
your mindless hate.
Now.. If the Head be dead..
No mo' fear led.
We jump and wave,
Jump and wave.

Like when ****** dead
We rest easy in our beds,
Then jump and wave,
Jump and wave.

My life before my eyes saw you
Was dark and empty and like a dying coal
My heart was hard and burdened with rue
My blood was cold from my dying soul
I had my things and friends 'tis true
But the happiness from stuff grows old
From whence happiness came I never knew
The only thing I felt was the creeping cold
Joy seemed to me as like a bird, in it came and out it flew
"Things always get better" I was told
But it seemed that to happiness was an everlasting queue
Some said to take a risk and risk being bold
Was all it took, as well as risking my life too
But I cringed and tried to hide in gold
Surely happiness From wealth was due?
Then I felt myself squeezed into a mould
And that was when my eyes saw you.

I need to talk about the God Gang.
Some of y’all think it is a good thang.
Well, I am here to tell you it is not.
It’s like the mullet when it was hot.
It’s all about what the majority agrees;
They do it without checking with me.
When it is in, people don’t see it’s bad
But it’s different when it’s a passe’ fad.

I was raised in the Bible Belt Buckle
And I had plenty of rapped knuckles.
I got berated when I would cough
And no way could I ever beat off.
I had to say I believed in Jesus Christ
If not I paid a heavy social price.
I was called some pretty ugly names
And I know the God Gang was to blame.

If you’re young and want to get laid
There is a horrific price to be paid.
You lie and pretend if you’re an atheist
That the other person’s God does exist,
And is the answer to every question.
Do it to get along is my suggestion.
Otherwise you will be called a heathen
As if the God Gang really was believing.

And it goes on to include everything.
Almost like the National Anthem thing.
Before every game, it was the same
Someone stood, invoked a holy name.
At trials on the Bible, I was forced to swear.
I wasn’t a Christian, but they didn’t care.
In a country called The Land Of The free
Actions proved they did not include me.

And political gatherings for which we pay
The God Gang manages to hold sway.
They call on God and even do a prayer
As if God was in the room somewhere
And the politicians didn’t want to offend.
When will this official superstition stuff end?
Someone needs to invent something great
Like an idea of separating church and state.