Give us Direction; the best of goodwill; Put us in touch with fair winds. Sing to us softly, hum the evening's song. Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.
Hold your head up to the gun of a million cathode ray tubes aired at your tiny skull.
Everyone is from somewhere, even if you've never been there.
We'll have Superman for President, let Robin save the day.
Snot is running down his nose, greasy fingers, smearing shabby clothes.
The doer and the thinker, no allowances for the other, as the failing light illuminates the mercenaries creed.