Innate feelings of generations
Fulfilled by satraps and mimes
Mixed with smoky, drink sodden-breath
An old Nag named Clementine
His hands are made of breaking bridges
Eyes rusty searching for gold
His mind a thousand lusts and fucks
Mountains, valleys crags and folds
He was the progenitor of our future
He was the woman before The Fall
He represents the ever loving
Trust the man when you are small
Once brothers they bonded so blindly
Shared bread, loves, drugs and wives
Then plowshares were swords now blinding
None dared render alibis
The blood filled bleached skulls of the corpses
The trees grew crimson at root
Rifles turned slag heaps of ashes
Making utopias moot
He was the genius behind the flintlock
He was the conqueror on the hill
He became one horrific monster
Trust the man who you will kill
One loving, now cynics and tricksters
With narcissism galore
Screens replace touch, sight and pleasure
Could man want anything more?
The planet lopsided keeps spinning
Ever hurtling towards our demise
Postmodern delusions keep churning
Yet seldom we look to the skies
He is the story that has an ending
He is erasing our glory too
He produces himself to oblivion
Trust the man, that’s me and you