The men on the box, say that we must
save the world for those yet to come.
While the tongue sounds noble, the wrist is limp
when the time draws near to turn the key.

The world is full of tongues,
but short of wrists to turn the knob
on the door to this promised land
which our children will surely be denied.

What kind of land shall they have?
A land where the air is as dark as the hearts
of the tongues that kill for even more land,
on which only more boxes will grow.

What kind of land shall they have?
A land where the land lies fallow
because it's wrists have been slashed
by tongues that have never gone hungry.

What kind of land shall they have?
A land where the water was blue
before the tongues spat filth and waste;
and the life that was then, is now gone forever.

What kind of land shall they have?
A land where fear locks the door
to the life promised to all, yet denied
by tongues that can speak only hate.

The kind of land that they shall have
is a land on fire, fueled by the boxes
that have supported these power-crazed tongues;
yes, their ashes are all that we all will have.