The Mediocre Song

No you won’t,
You won’t win this game.

Carried by influence
And well-aimed petulance,
With a brutish force
Of polished horns
The spoiled seeds of stinking gold
Will bore through you
And bleed you down.

No you won’t,
You won’t win this game.

The mud-stained scrolls
And blue honor rolls
That bring you hope
Your day will come
Shall soon be trampled under boots.
The dream shall wither
When night does come.

No you won’t,
You won’t win this game.

Now slithers the snake
Along the tranquil lake
Of petrified tears
And stagnant sweat.
The fangs that seek your naked toe
Will make you gasp
For every breath.

No you won’t,
You won’t win this game.

Get out or be dead
Bear this nameless dread.
Sign out, yes – now!
From this titanic race
To grow your plant in a shaded haunt
Where the sun’s lazily
Warm on the face.

No you won’t,
You won’t win this game.

This ain’t your fight
You’ve loved the light
Where all is fair
And your back’s clean.
Here you wait for the deadly knife
With a poisoned tip
And painful sheen.

No you won’t,
You won’t win this game.

Let the bulls and snakes
Play for their stakes
And climb their steps
And scramble up rocks.
There is no time for golden flowers
In the fight for gold
And emerald frocks.

No you won’t,
You won’t win this game.

You never will.