We were gonna go down to the streets to see.
They didn’t want us to see.
Oh America, why do you do this to me.
I learned the blues,
On my own,
In my bedroom,
Cryin’ tears a fire.
I had covered,
my soul in bruises.
my questioning,
had given myself pain.
See the blue area, the navy
of the ocean on the flag,
cracks open and fills
the canals between the red.
I read my flag downwards,
blood
And blues.
blood and blues.
I for one,
believed in Rock and Roll,
the artists shovel coal in
the engine room of the
adolescent dream machine.
their heaps of pink carnations
are fed to broncing bucks,
running up treadmills
fueling the oft graceful
smiles and reasons
Americans began to choose love.
It is such as the young American works,
they get a tune in their head,
and all the voice boxes they hear,
make them compose differently.
So when they lay down they’ve got
their own national anthem
and it is their fascination unto sleep.
Upon waking making arm swing
of opus once again , whether
wailing or waltzing we continue out,
we attribute a word to song,
in either direction does it sit,
like a board on a pinnacle,
flat or sharp,
It is a fraction between a swing or a nod
In the dance,
It is hate and love departing there in choice,
It sounds, during band practice
like a tree falling on the house.
How we stutter and lie our America
how we leave our national anthem
in the edited version,
that goes on out of ear shot.
As the tree smashes through with cold morning,
it is the thought in our mind of how
the livingroom would look brand new,
Fixed up in the impossible ways
That can’t coexist with impact.
We see how silence has knit our flag.
How it is
Bleeding
and blooming
Bleeding
and blueing me.
The drum wants my little dream,
to shake in its weight and
tot get instrument to bow,
It wants me to have toothpicks
for orchestra
and stay inside.
We asked to see.
They didn’t want us to see.
America, I can’t let you do this to me.
