The ink was still wet on the broadside of hope,

As they measured the neck for the hangman’s new rope,

And toasted the fall of the crown and the sword.

The logic of history, cold as a knife,

Dissects every limb of a commoner’s life,

In the name of a peace that the poor can’t afford.

The committee is meeting in chambers of gold,

To sell off the dreams that were never quite sold,

While the dossiers fatten on rumors and lies.

A hero is minted and then he is shot,

To ensure that the martyr doesn't thicken the plot,

Underneath the unblinking and lead-colored skies.

The slogans are painted on walls that are thin,

To cover the rot that is brewing within,

And the stench of the fear that no incense can hide.

The worker is chanting, "The future is mine,"

While standing in slush in a mile-long line,

With nothing but salt and his shadows for pride.

So bury the books and the poets they praise,

In the soot of the fires the patriots raise,

To keep out the chill of a truth they can’t face.

The revolution is merely a turn of the wheel,

Where the hand on the whip is the only thing real,

As the winners erase every footprint and trace.