Let elite’s country clubs become grave yards.
Come and erect the boards,
let down the noose, let known the deeds,
what wicked men have done in secret keeps
dark towers, smuggled underground,
hid from lit up day and the reeling crowd.
Come and erect the floors,
let fall the doors, let shown the feats
a kindred folks have done in public streets
and lit up parks we’ve gone into in need,
pitted against a common force in vows—
Down. Down. So cheers the crowd,
come and elect your wards;
let future know, let go the pull of strings
monstrous men have worked covertly to keep
under the earth, they sought to burn and reep
to keep the crowd from streets and indeed the clouds.
© J.P.V.
