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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.
Copyright ©
Jan Hansen
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