Six of the seventh,
It’s raining from heavenith.
We’re ready to fight,
Ready to stand.
Ready to throw pitchforks,
At the invisible hand.
We’re growing in might,
Hardening our heel.
Discovering which way,
We’re going to feel.
Between roof and ceiling,
Front-wards or door.
The way we’re feeling
Is like nothing before.
Does come from above,
Or from deep below.
Who the fuck cares,
When you’ve some place to go.
Fobbing then Dobbing,
Sooking while cooking pet.
All manor o’confusion,
Just because your fuse went.
It’s your Shangrila,
Your utopian space.
Now it’s polluted,
You played the wrong ace.
Didn’t you read,
God’s man-you-al?
The one God gave,
With every son.
Its owned by all,
Yet none keep its key.
Translating’s futile,
See if a seed is free.