bury the scholars and burn the books
Ancient world but not prehistoric,
A book is a mirror and you may not enjoy it.
Making the politician get new clothes.
Clothes make the man, a red tie shows.
Politician’s lookin’ for a new look.
His prayer says, “I’m not a crook
And by the way why don’t you
Bury the scholars and burn the books.
Bury the scholars and burn the books.”
Scientists give you an atom bomb.
“Hey buddy, can you spare a dime.”
Politicians got mushrooms in the sky.
Fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“I thought checkmate ended the game.”
“I forgot to tell you there’s been a rule change.”
“Gimme some wool so I can dye in peace.”
It grows on a warm body but the sheep’s been fleeced.
Stars give the night sky a natural look
But with those artificial suns, the night’s been rooked.
“And by the way why don’t you
Bury the scholars and burn the books.
Bury the scholars and burn the books.”
“Who stole the key to room six hundred?”
Pirates of decency, plunder, plunder.
Fraudsters, tricksters, mix masters.
Shake and strain to find the answers.
“Why don’t you trust me anymore?”
Evolution’s chain can’t find the door.
The trail’s run out; it’s gone over the cliff.
The key to understanding’s no longer missed.
Truth’s taken on a whole new look.
The cloak of decency can’t be shook.
“And by the way why don’t you
Bury the scholars and burn the books.
Bury the scholars and burn the books.”
Responsibility sits in a bowl in shackles.
Add blood to hear it snap, pop and crackle.
All the other keys are still on the chain.
You don’t need one to open the drain
To free will finger pointing as to who’s to blame.
Took two thousand years to clear the air.
And one divine moment to transcend stares.
“Blow me a kiss from across the room.
Part your lips; hold sincerity’s broom.
Make me feel that it’s all true.
Make me know that it’s true-blue.
Make me know that I ain’t been took
By invisible ink written on pages in a book.
And by the way forget about
Buryin’ the scholars and burning the books.
Let the eater of souls have an unrequited look.
The instinct of the diabolical
Has become the reflex of the mechanical.
They force you to change the words of your birth.
Seeds only sprout thorns in your good earth.
Leaders look into mirrors all around town
For the statesmen buried six feet under ground.
“So help me know what the scholars have learned.
Help me know that the words can’t be burned.
Make me know that after you look
You won’t break the mirror of an open book.”
So let the scholars grow old.
Let their books grow cold.
Let the grandfather clock tick out our time
That you hold in your hand like grains of sand.
And when everything we know like spring snow
Has died a natural death,
Let Mother Nature forever reveal her prime
In the honey sweet fragrance of her breath.