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Tuesday
October 21, 2014
1:24am EDT


Rated: 13+ | Lyrics | War | #1308161
There's trouble in the so-called Emerald City.
Walking under ladders
with a black cat in tow,
I have four hours
thirteen minutes to go.

The triskadekaphobics' ball is at
the Green Zone, baby.
It's on tonight.
You better believe it.

Put my salt and pepper shakers
in my black satin satchel.
Gonna pour it on the fakers.
May my antics fare well.

The triskadekaphobics cower at my delight.
Hey, I know the score.
You better believe it.

Life ain't the same
when superstition rules.
So I break from the pack
and play my own game.

Going left foot first
to the Emerald Palace
where young Christians party
waiting to burst.

Life ain't the same
where fear reigns king.
So we're pretty much screwed,
blown up and lame.

The bomb's at the gates
waiting for the B-Mer.
And this palace is
where destiny awaits.


As I stride into the foyer
past the hall of smashed mirrors,
I wander past the office
of the source of our crisis.

The triskadekaphobics shimmy to a hip-hop beat.
My ears don't lie.
I don't believe it.

When I hit the dance floor,
I brace myself 'gainst the uproar
of the marble-shaking stereo
that moves the anglos.

The triskadekaphobics shake their asses at Saddam
and made his palace their playground.
I don't believe it.

Life ain't the same
when superstition rules.
So I break from the pack
and play my own game.

Going left foot first
to the Emerald Palace
where young Christians party
waiting to burst.

Life ain't the same
where fear reigns king.
So we're pretty much screwed,
blown up and lame.

The bomb's at the gates
waiting for the B-Mer.
And this palace is
where destiny awaits.


And when it's time for dinner,
two people cross their knives.
Another two swap their gloves,
knocking over candles.

As a nation limps to summer
fighting for their lives,
car bombs roast the ailing doves,
the food of the rebels.

The flames slink 'cross the table.
The ballroom melts to gold.
Someone runs into a wall
and brings down Saddam's portrait.

Like horses fleeing the stable,
the youths cannot be consoled,
instead dashing through crumbling halls
contrary to sloth-like habit.

The triskadekaphobics can't handle the breach.
I go for my satchel, unearthing the wares.
And then I throw them up into the air,
let them fall to the floor, out of the staffers' reach.

And let the shakers sprinkle their wares through the halls....


I make it out in one piece
after the world goes boom.
Smoke and concrete dust
should summon the police.

But police do not exist
in the lawless land where
Americans live like kings.
The Iraqis are pissed.

I make it out in one piece
to watch the staffers writhe
in blood, ash and screams
that will only increase.

Life ain't the same
when superstition rules.
So I break from the pack
and play my own game.

Going left foot first
to the Emerald Palace
where young Christians party
waiting to burst.

Life ain't the same
where fear reigns king.
So we're pretty much screwed,
blown up and lame.

The bomb's at the gates
waiting for the B-Mer.
And this palace is
where destiny awaits.
© Copyright 2007 Elisa, Stik or Treat (UN: soledad_moon at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Elisa, Stik or Treat has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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