goin all Bob Dylan on ya

Oh I am going to get hate mail on this one.

They're Shooting Monks in Burma

They're shooting monks in Burma
to silence cries for peace
Men of hate cannot dodge fate
just delay their own release
When bullets rule as chosen tool
of those who seek their ends
they'll find the grind is unconfined
to those they'd not call friends.

We are a thirsty people
too often slaked by blood
Too often quenched in evil
and drenched in saline flood
We turn on backs on burlap sacks
they tossed in graves en masse
If there's no money to be had
we don't sweat the trampled grass

They're cutting off the lifelines
of the people without hope
Our silence makes us as guilty
as the mob that brought the rope.
We're too busy setting example
pound the plowshare inta sword
So we can protect profits
for some fatcat oil lord.

They're beatin' priests in China
but that's where we get our toys
and we don't really seem to care
what the church does with small boys.
As long as we go status quo
we're content to keep the peace
with silent tongues and bodies flung:
When will the madness cease?


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.