Miss Liberty & Masters of War

and on their way,
fully dressed to kill,
up and over the top of Bunker Hill
they climbed the Stairway to Heaven
for a better view of the steel woman with spiked hair;
they knew she was there
with flames in her right hand,
as she talked to a former lover
a month before his unexpected death
when he tried to run but ran out of breath.
and peering closely, the gum shoes joined arms to see
the woman urgently singing on the stage of Bohemian Rhapsody
the songs "Tired! Tired!"
and "Poor! Poor!"
her eyes falling away from her forehead
when she laughed at them and wished them dead
crowded together on their ludicrously small perch.
they guessed she must be a Black Magic Woman
when she disappeared behind tight lips
and the passing sailing Wooden Ships
only to reemerge in a swirling cloud of fog
fashioned in the image of Miss Liberty
hoping for a complete victory
when she hit them on the head
in an attack so vicious
they bled for several hours.
i'm convinced had they not meddled
Another Brick in the Wall
would not have been made to fall
and she would have seen them stoned on
Cocaine and not political power
In The Midnight Hour.
the new Sultans Of Swing finally got a hint
and began yelling back,
but never really understanding
they were now on the wrong side of the history track;
her copper tablet came crashing down on
each man's head,
demeaning them as well as their friends
who stood helplessly by,
too afraid to cry,
too cast down by misfortune to even smile.
the Masters of War, as they now came to be known,
wished the woman away,
made a daily effort to pray
and tried to stop the press,
made everyone else guess
what they had up their sleeve;
they wanted the electorate to believe
anything their crazy leader said
or did
even when he blew his lid;
and in the ensuring riot,
a momentary quiet;
an Immigrant Song
like steam rising above a spreading chestnut tree,
huddled masses yearning to breathe free
spread from sea to shining sea
in a slow dance winding through the streets,
within concrete canyons,
over fertile fields of plenty,
no one dressed to conform
looking for
a Shelter From The Storm.