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Wednesday, January 8th, 2003

Time Event
3:28a
The Mandate
Verse 1a:
Missy keeps a pistol in her purse, mace up her sleeve. She’s cautious ‘cause the kingdom’s under siege. Tiptoes around the manholes. These city sewers never sleep, teaming with lazies and crazies. [break] Our nation is like a lid floating on a labyrinth of the wretched. Missy feels safe inside the gates. She runs all the way to her estate.

Verse 1b:
And hawkish Abel’s voice fills up the Civic dome. His speech is an allusion to the fall of Rome. He says, “Only our fleets and squadrons can outreach our laws.” His meaty fist cues a cascade of applause.

Pre-chorus:
And Jimmy gives up half his day assembling armored buggies. The welding burns his vision green. Magnesium sunspots blind him until he screams, but he’s making quotas on the machining line. The stockpile climbs: Ten tanks per hour.

Chorus 1:
We’ll build a Good Place from all this trash. We’ll burn it all like grass, then till the ash. Yes, all we want is the last Good Place that buries every dreg and leaves no trace.

Verse 2a:
A metaphor the pundits extol: “If you want a diamond, you must put heat and pressure on the coal.” Any child will tell you half the world’s gone to hell. Sinking and spilling like a tanker. [Segue] Bleeding black riches into the sea. A clockwise whirlpool tugs at our heels. We have got to cut ourselves free and come out on top of this Atlantis scenario.

"Classical":
The gap between the rich and the worthless yawns ever wider like a jaw despite our staunchest, most dire policies—stranglehold measures and cut-throat laws.

"Fifth Column":
When sewage seeps into groundwater, no bulwark, nor moat, nor trench, nor Great Wall seen from space can filter the illness and the stench. Our pillars soar high, the bone-white architecture of power, but the earth itself files marble foundations into rock flour. Remember the lesson of Madrid: A strong house has four columns, but the fifth is invisible, and that’s the one that brings the house down. Remember the lesson of Madrid: The rebels form four columns, but the fifth is invisible, and our strength is still divisible.

Boast A:
We’re the first new snow in winter, virgin white and crisply defined, armed with an ideology as neat as a snowflake, rigid and fine—a hexagonal wheel of ornate spears, as prickly as it is handsome. We explode with flags. The world will break on us like waves on coastal crags.

Boast B:
Our sovereignty is severity. It keeps us proud and cynical. We brood like a bird on history, looking down from our thorny pinnacle. The foreigners wallow in folly; they have forfeited their rights, and they will be serfs whose fat draws up the wicks of our Cities of Endless Light.

Verse 3:
Like Nemesis, our scorn—our icy blood suddenly sublimates to a storm, eyeless and irate. Conquest is a dirty job, but someone’s got to have the mandate. (Aren't we the Lionheads?)

Chorus 2:
We’ll build a Good Place from all this waste. It’s on the tips of our tongues like a taste because we’re so close to the last Good Place that buries all the dregs and leave no trace.

Chorus 3:
We’ll build a Good Place from all this mess. Bulldoze the world to bricks with no regrets. Yes, we deserve it, the last Good Place. We’ll trample like a flood and leave no trace.

Finale:
We will inherit what we have wrenched from out of the mire, what’s scoured by fire. And then we’ll look at what we saved, and see that it is good.

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Current Mood: relieved

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