The Guard

The guards They are coming, who are coming I feel the dust, a dry power from the dry land far, and hear they must have marched long Are they churning the land with restless feet I don't know, I hear the humming animals flee from their newborn ones, too late the hum will burst their ears. We are not rabbits, get ear-mufflers and bravely fight do not give in before the humming stops. They are coming closer, my lord. Who is coming closer, the ugly old man who sings loudly and farts on stage, did you mean drumming? Of course What can we do? Buy food for the weekends, buy beer switch off the TV, radio, and internet, we must suffer to ride on broomsticks to a land of pink flowers sweet lambs, and tiny Bambi deer. Waving leather-bound bibles, we shall overcome.