In a forest of stone
|
underneath the corporate canopy
|
where the sun
|
rarely
|
filters
|
down
|
the ground
|
is not so soft
|
not so soft
|
|
they build buildings to house people
|
making money
|
or they build buildings to make money
|
off of housing people
|
it's true
|
like a lot of things are true
|
I am foraging for a phone booth on the forest floor
|
that is not so soft
|
I look up
|
it looks like the buildings are burning
|
but it's just the sun setting
|
the solar system calling an end
|
to another business day
|
eternally circling signally
|
the rythmic clicking on and off
|
of computers
|
the pulse
|
of the american machine
|
the pulse
|
that draws death dancing
|
out of anonymous side streets
|
you know
|
the ones that always get dumped on
|
and never get plowed
|
it draws death dancing
|
out of little countries
|
with funny languages
|
where the ground is getting harder
|
and it was
|
not
|
that
|
soft
|
before
|
|
those who call the shots
|
are never in the line of fire
|
why
|
where there's life for hire
|
out there
|
if a flag of truth were raised
|
we could watch every liar
|
rise to wave it
|
here
|
we learn america like a script
|
playwright
|
birthright
|
same thing
|
we bring
|
ourselves to the role
|
we're all rehearsing for the presidency
|
I always wanted to be
|
commander in chief
|
of my one woman army
|
|
but I can envision the mediocrity
|
of my finest hour
|
it's the failed america in me
|
it's the fear that lives
|
in a forest of stone
|
underneath the corporate canopy
|
where the sun
|
rarely
|
filters
|
down
|
and the ground
|
is not so soft
|
|
-----------------
|
Not So Soft
|
| Ani DiFranco |
