Desert grows with hopes of kissing the jungle’s coolness To breathe in through wet sand But dead land’s where all the vectors steer Now the desert is here And she’s drowning in chaos
How strong the hangman’s hands become With revolution’s swarming buzz And as the fortress crumbles He is all that upholds what there was And without the black hood And the gallows to pronounce his silent name He’ll be reborn Another hangman for the new regime
What does the washed up actress turn to When her lines are cutting room debris? She charms a field commander Steals the secret plots of world war three And batting childish eyes She’s feigning drunken sloppiness While giving green light clearance To the death machines in Washington DC
And where do I go now that Life has come tied me to the mast? The sirens’ voices calling “Alex Can’t you hear us? Don’t sail past This starving magic Don’t pretend that you don’t care” But I whisper, “Art is less than life itself” I’m really quite convincing