The days are hot, O Babylon!
'tis cool beneath thy cherry trees.
The sun is gone to azimuth
and with him snatched the breeze.
No celebrations will there be
but just the same old same.
And all the homeless lie in state
where no one knows their name.
The convicts act as warden
madmen alienists disguise,
and people show their TV faces
where no one see their eyes.
The days grow cool, O Babylon!
Take scapegoat of the past
and drive him out beyond the hills,
the evil unsurpassed.
We stand upon our last redoubt
where Lee saw rise the sun,
and watch fraternal disarray
to see if war's begun.
The fall of year, the fall of man
and all the sons of Eve
now driven east of Eden are
and all their mothers grieve.
The days grow dark, O Babylon!
and oedipal perverse
of sons who've killed their mothers dear,
alive upon the earth.
Our madness is our vanity;
our truth informs our lies;
our riches form the gilt entrails
of our Lord of Flies!
Let us jump upon the dance
like maddened maenads all,
and bring the flag which we adore
and spread it for our pall!
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