Our Souls and Our Graves
Might I hear the souls of those
that have not been shown
the freedom of old?
Perfect circle, there you stand,
deterring all that's come unbound:
a ticket to Piccadilly,
surely and perfectly
a secret message in Morse code
like a golden peacock soaring
through the sand ocean's mane;
one name next to mine in the prim, glittering snow.
Come here, my soul, and be strong;
be bold,
for truth be told,
there is more to be bought,
and more to be sold,
and selling yourself to a lowly spit-fire
will bury you early
in this land of the mire.
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