Thursday’s vacant land = or = the little org that could. We tried so hard With all our might To raise our goals In Dawn’s young light And when it came The too short flower 1400 You know the hour Our stats were down Our Telex broke Our little org Went up in smoke A momentous pause To survey the ruins And back to treason Our selves did fall. It’s all a game, but deadly sure Forget the why We must endure With plastic grins and sweaty palms we’ll write our checks and call it alms.
