Yanking Out Weeds
I'm out yanking, my own General Ulysses,
The dead don't diddly die in vain,
but in momentary pain, and I need space to operate.
From kindly Quakers to new earthshakers,
breathing out virtue, close to nature
come my brothers, we need no others
Yanking out weeds, around the planet
performing my deeds, in my new flight jacket
my hardware gloves protecting..those I love
dreamt I was a cousin Brit
full of xenophobic shit
somehow strangely believing it,
fending off doom, making more room
Yanking out weeds, around the planet
performing my deeds, sitting with my legs out wide in the sultan's palace,
my hardware gloves protecting those I love
I whisper to the wind, it whispers me things,
that I keep secret.. that I hold in, coz I need space to operate