It was always the hang-ups that left you tired.
Because you could talk to a supporter for hours,
but you had no harvested energy when it came to political dial tones,
Sometimes patience is lost in corruption, so you retired the phone.
You began to drop literature in the odd-numbered boxes.
But you couldn't communicate with the "essential" crowd.
So you joined the elite, with their graveyard expressions.
The oppression hit slowly, with not one anchorman's sound.
And white clouds shaped the birthmarks fall into our eyes.
You came to believe you could hide a disguise.
At the local level, we collectively grinned,
as the radio announcer coughed out the win.
And it's not like we thought that the truth would be clean.
But the rough spots can be sanded by our poor, ugly means.
We threw up our hands, let the punk-rockers think
that we'd turned it over, and could deal with the greed.
And white clouds shaped the birth mothers fall into our arms,
while we're lying in that God-created grass.
Our minds were in a well-imagined land,
but still no one believes that the world will end fast.