Dance of the Devil

When the walking wounded rule the world
and the innocents are made to pay
for all the sins of all the fathers,
with their feet of clay;
when the petty demons roam unchecked
and even angels are fair game
to have their wings of purest white
tarnished by the flame;

when hope has died and courage fled
and the green-eyed monster has its way,
then nothing will find rest at night
or safety in the day.
When sons and daughters are no longer
protected from the awful beast,
but laid upon the altar
of its unholy feast,

then we shall know of a certainty
that you pay for what you get.
Too late for us to see
the devil's cunning net.
The time has come to pay the fiddler,
just time for one more hand.
Time for now or never,
to make just one last stand.

Before tomorrows are sold away
down the river of night,
for our children's sake
we must stand and fight.
For the walking wounded must not rule,
nor the devil dance.
We'd better soon awaken
from our blue-lit trance.

With every prozac-deadened day,
with every aquisition,
our children find themselves
in ever worse condition.
Their wants fulfilled, their every whim,
but what about their needs?
How long before we recognize
the flowers from the weeds?

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