The Vines Of Buried Hands

Grab to the clovers and the vines of buried hands
'neath the soil of infinity
Toward the corners grasp of reality if feracious marching hands build their wombs
That eventually get beaten down, why bother creating a wall of the South
If Bowie was still around, would you dare to call him a clown?
Would you beat him to the ground?
Like you do the children who don't want to date your daughter
But your son
Will you bury the children like Mary?
Will you weep or cheer?
As they are put into the ground
Will you bring gifts to the destructive ones?
Will you give your sacrificial offerings to the holy ones who cause destruction?
For this view will I be hung, in front of the world from a pole for all to see?
Will pumpkin dress sway in the wind beneath me?
And will tears fall, disowned eyes?
Will dew in the morning increase?
Will the mountains collapse and crumble and they are forgotten like us?
Will they square dance beside their wall?
And hang our flag to incinerate?
Will they?
Hopefully we will never have to find out