And there’s a poor boy at the river
Who’s pouring poison in his wine;
But, when his will begins to quiver,
He takes it as a sign.
And all the streets are full of horses,
But they’re not going anywhere;
They’re in the thrall of foreign forces
So offer up a prayer.
And all the houses of the gentry
Both in the town and on the land
Are guarded by a lonely sentry,
A gun in every hand.
And every single vacant lot
Is proof that life’s gone pear-shaped – not.
Photo by Jossuha Théophile on Unsplash
