Oh, I recall the last morning
the sun would rise on the race of man,
after which, it was clear, nothing could be the same again.
When called to answer for their crimes,
the only response that they could find
was that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Now the sun in the sky has turned to dust,
the rivers are running red with blood,
and the cries of the helpless are never, never enough.
And those of us who were still alive
were rightly afraid to go outside,
when VuBu said, “This isn’t shoegaze – this is suicide.”
Then they came with torches and pitchforks,
carrying guns, clubs and sharp swords,
when the loudest voice I ever heard said, “It’s over.”