Burn out these eyes eyes until we scream
|
"enough!" Such is the nature of our
|
struggles. Hampered by naught but our
|
own sight of the laddar's rungs begun
|
halfway up. But still we'll climb, hand over
|
mouth, fist over thought, despite our
|
numbers. Break the seal while growing
|
still. Once more over the top, friends!
|
And rising still the aesthetic of action
|
we've idolized. Coupled with our position
|
in this: a median within the din of a bleating
|
servitude. Low enough to feel the boots
|
of Rome, but high enough to cut the heel.
|
What good are we now? Left in transit by
|
a legacy of thought that acted very little
|
in the name of the high enough to learn,
|
but low enough to fight from the outside.
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Cut this to the bone.
|
Assemble all yours. Call on the allies. This is
|
the arming of a nation under all signs.
|
Bring out the banners. Proclaim the marches.
|
This is our bloc of many colours.
|
|
-----------------
|
The 18th Brumaire Of Boomer Ellsworth
|
Bombs Over Providence |