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

 
 
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