When the whip comes down
On the common word, exact without vulgarity
And consorts begin dancing among themselves
Scouring the summertime thickets of forged visas
And the guard from St. Louis bums a light, says
Youre not from round here, are ya?
The time has passed for putting on airs
For recollecting a vulgar marxism for a vulgar world.
The murderers of our own children, the hooded friars
Who find it hard to be human with no memory
Sit stoic on the board of the holding company
That mined the harbors in Haiphong and Baltimore
With dried bones, insisting we follow our leader.
After clearing customs, time thickens and takes on flesh.