Poland, 1845

The blood of my ancestors
Flows shamefully through my veins
They would cut out my tongue
If they heard the things I sing
I have a marker
And a mind to vandalize
Like I did to my desk
When I was five
What's changed since then
Is a deep appreciation
For the finer things
This side of martyrdom
I set a second timer on the alarm clock
I've got a busy day tomorrow
That I can't afford to miss
Countless counter-culture costumes
I've got to see which one will fit
I've got half a mind to sleep till 3
And opt out of opportunity
So fuck it
It's not a crime
But I think it should be
Then again there's always something
To be done
And boys, no excuse me men
With a mythology of justification
I may stretch my words
But you stretch the truth
So hammer out the meaning
In a solitary grain of sand
And I will raise my hand
And swear on sacred writing
My allegiance to my country
And my god, whichever one you want
I will retract what I have said
And I'll undo what I have done
And our hearts would beat
In anti-solidarity
Between tradition, coincidence
And geography
I've got half a mind to sleep till three
But fitfully
The blood of my ancestors
Survives in me
That's a hell of a responsibility
And our eyes would meet
Then avert themselves immediately
Between embarrassment, reluctance, and psychiatry
I've got half a mind to sleep till three
But fitfully
The blood of my ancestors
Survives in me
That's a hell of a responsibility