What happened to the lyric, eh?
And the starving, blazing pen
Rippled paper, the maleficent word
Spartan, pristine, harvest, and sound
Something's got to give
Or brazenly we'll go
With our heads obeying injunctions
And our arms in sacred knots
Writing's saving the world
Well, cosmic time and space
And if it stirs a thousand ways
It still prizes one
We are not frightened
Or selfish and mad
But politic and just
And equipped to hassle
To worry ourselves in a trap
Gnawing until our wounds are bled
Red, raw, frenetic, and dull
Glistening whiteness and teeth sharped like bone