good night, sweet hearts, it's time to go



I used to sing a song about a War Prophet,



a washboard

blues in E-flat

involving scratch

acoustic slide riffs etc.



v.1

The War Prophet

came riding over the hillside

he only had one horse

between his thighs



the other 3 horses

he left

bereft

for Jesus Christ



the War Prophet

knew his price

he knew he was not the Christ -

not yet



v.2

He came

thunderin' through the twilight

lightning shooting

from his eyes



All across horizons

you could see the farmhouse

fires

blowing



Women, girls & little boys

heads exploding

in the noise:

the War Prophet



had looked too hard

at their Horizon



Fire in the Government:

Satans from their Hells



arising



v.3

"You're bound to drop the bombs!,"

shouted Clint Eastwood from his house,

while long across the purple plain

the President, a mouse, just lost his grip:



This is what I have to do

This is what I have to do



Okay



Once I believed I was the War Prophet

and so, evidently, I was,

albeit in a very minor

league way.



The Grand Masters of

the Prophecy Council

now, of course,

sit bunkered



in Washington, D.C.,



lording it to their vassals,

munching on Freedom Fries

fixing to umber the Panic Code

up just a shade



in honor of GWB's

Big Moment of Truth

Infoganda-mercial

scheduled to air tonight,



8 P.M. Eastern Standard Time.



Ready or not,

here we come!



dead or alive

dead or alive

dead or alive



I plan to watch in terror