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The Things They Made
Things [Draft 2.5]
John Moses Browning ascended to heaven
Gripping in each fist a 1911
Muzzle-flash lightning and gunpowder thunder
John Moses Browning at war with his brethren
Alfred Nobel as a dead jester rises
Clad in singed whiskers and sooty disguises
Fuses of dynamite sparkle in one hand
While from the other he offers us prizes
Winchester's wife is entombed in her labyrinth
Drowning her guilt in a green pond of absinthe
Victims pursue her with slow, shambling vengeance
Down on the ground floor and up on the seventh
Poor Oppenheimer, his hunched apparition
Kneels in the desert, bemoaning ambition
Rips up his notes like a modern Pandora
Shrinks from a dawn that reminds him of fission
The things they made
Now we're left with the things they made
Harold P. Brown now presides over Hades
Slumped in the throne he and Edison made
He's lord of the convicts, his brass eyes electric
Burn through the shackled men, shocking the ladies
Mikhail Kalashnikov weeps in his tower
A metal and wooden carnivorous flower
Craning its neck over ten-million tombstones
Every new death only adds to its power
Poisonous mist clings to Fritz Haber's eyrie
Barren the hills where he hides, grim and wary
Wreathed in chlorine when he sighs like a dragon
Broken and bowed from the shame he must carry
John Moses Browning ascended to heaven
Gripping in each fist a 1911
Muzzleflash lightning and gunpowder thunder
John Moses Browning at war with his brethren
The things they made
Now we're left with the things they made |