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Madder Mortem
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All the Giants are Dead
No oath guards their dreams
No hope molds their schemes
Down comes the curtain, up goes the puppetry
Here come the moguls, dressed for the upper seats
Name us hands and peasants
Know our mettle when we crawl
Curled beneath our lintels
for a hammer that may fall
Once the backbone, titans bent beneath the right
Now a plump, decaying featherbed that smells of knives
Rank pretenders, spurring us to lay our lives
in the hands of the profiteers who'd eat the light
Loud teeth made to gleam
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Won't be if they can seem
warm like a person, cold like consistency,
true like a newborn, whole like integrity
Charming layers of menace Sleek suits, coming when they go
Not one turn not planned
The smiles, the ties, the yammer
There's a stern wind singing in the trees tonight
Find your strength in the will of root, it stays alive
Make no tombs for the vermin built to warp your sight
By our blood and soil: This effigy, it dies tonight
All the giants are dead
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