Books
Poetry/Lyrics
Essays
Arrows and Guns
Let me tell you a tale
of arrows and guns,
arrows and guns
and horses and rail.
Of whiskey and playing
old rivals at poker
and plague and mass killing
and extermination.
I'd sing you a tale
if I had any voices.
If I had any voices
that had any drums.
I'd sing you a sad song
of the end of dead races,
of torture and cruelty
and arrows, and guns.
There aren't any witnessess
left to bear witness.
There aren't any eyes left
or feathers or smoke.
There aren't any books left
or records, or songs
or children, or homes
or wolves, or bones.
We're left with a justice,
a feeling of fairness,
of civilisation,
and law and respect,
but it's untrue, it's evil,
it's brutal and vicious.
A monster of power
and hidden mass graves.
And blood like a river
goes rolling and rolling,
and old man a tolling
a buffolo bell.
A fragment of leather,
the dust of dead sons,
That form a vague pattern
of arrows and guns.
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