Twenty-Six

i paid for your empty empire

i left you a note

the ground was a bed of feathers

right where you all vote

take all of your vitriolic bad mannered ideals

and leave them where i used to run

from my house to the fields

and don't paper

don't paper over this

this

and don't ever

don't ask me to exist

in the land that was free

you march to a loud beat and it's out of time with me

there's no tears where we've gone but there are some left on my sleeve

and don't paper ...