Hopes grow dim for our land
The Headlines’ booming voice is loud
And though it’s not done by yours or my hand
We’re still to blame, we are the crowd
Youth and loveliness slain by lust
Their memories swept away like daily dust
 
The tragedy occurs again and again
Our world is crying
Nightmares Devils Guerrillas Slain men
Suicides, our world is dying
People working on a single clue
Just to find they’re in the same stew
 
Standards tumbling under economic crises
Greed and envy multiplying
All we see is ever-increasing prices
And politicians living by lying
But they say ‘It’s on the mend’
Could it be that we’ll see the end
 
On the streets the children play
With toy guns and other likes
OH STOP!  I’d like to say
But we teach them, we, the biggest tykes
And we’re no better, our guns are real
When we say, you’re dead, we don’t heal
 
I read that Lucretia Borgia has struck again
But is she guilty or is it just her fame
No one knows, but the twelve then
Know where she goes, as she gets the blame
And the world goes living on and on
With no one caring to whence she’s gone
 
The wrath of the unions governing all
A different strike each week
And usually arbitration will fall
raising wages to a temporary peak
I look at the world, and see the burning wicks
Finding them well lit…in seventy-six