It’s hard to debate with men that flake;
Their skin makes a pile on the floor
That the next men rake and recreate.

A hundred thousand hands they shake,
Choosing roles, making honest mistakes,
Watching the polls, they wait and wait.

It’s not that they’re fake
(It’s them we make)
But it’s us and we
Into our future that resonates.

When order forsakes
We’re all half-slaves
To a system that should save
But goodness has caved.
We’d reconsolidate,
Leaven this wake we’ve made.
But we insist it’s too late
Our date with fate we laid.

The lesser of evils
We think we should take
When we should outrun the weasels
And recreate fate.