They dip their brushes in blood to paint the pretty scenes
that they sell to you and I as those elusive dreams
And when they find more canvas and when they need new paint,
they'll come again to us and field-promote their own saint
to lead us into their nightmare
"The songs and the eggnog are flowing.
The sweat down our foreheads is rolling.
Though you might not think it's worth knowing,
I tell you that somewhere it's snowing.
The sands in the starlight are glowing.
I feel life silently flowing.
As we wit in this silence not knowing,
I see you at our gate, and it's snowing.
The time has come to be strong,
to be strong for the ones that I love.
The time to have faith is here.
I'll be with you soon, my dear."
It's a romanottomannazibolshevikyankeearabic smirk
The aristofascists everywhere hire out their dirty work
They play this game of carnal chess and watch newsreels from the front,
steeled by their brandy and the foreign exchange
for the blood and the dust
and the voice of a grunt