The Peacocks are in power.

Patriotism pales to a pall
and the Peacocks are in power,
who knows what happens when the Peacocks go?
The Peacocks are in power.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
Is power down beneath the sea?
Is power in the yellow sun?

The pilgrims travel off the earth
and yearn for power's might,
but the Peacocks arrived before them all;
the Peacocks left last night.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
Is power in the ancient days?
Is power yet in days to come?

The Peacocks preen themselves some more,
their feathers gleaming in the sun,
and glossy patterns wriggle around
running, screaming, from the gun.

Power, power, what is power?
Where does power come from?
It's in the gun, it's in the gun,
that's where power comes from.
Peacocks scatter, Peacocks run,
Now you know where power comes from.
 

An Other World

“Is there an other world,” the daisy asked,

 

“that lies beyond what I can see?

 I nod my head and dance to the sun

 but really, all I can see is me.

 I don’t exist because of who I am,

 I exist because you named me:

 if you weren’t here, if I wasn’t there

 then where would I be?”

 

“That other place,” the fog replied

 as it slithered across the skin,

 seeped into every grassy hair,

 fed tables that lay within.

“That other place where no one goes,

 where no one’s been before

 except, of course, for these and those

 and the ones in between less and more.”

 

“Can I visit them?” the daisy asked,

 as she sang her little song.

“Don’t hurry God,” the fog replied,

“He’ll send you there ere long.”