War drums

And the air tastes of raw linen 

And I watch a million suns explode 

In the distant horizon 

And footsteps, 

Beating and beating and beating 

Like some twisted wardrum 

They don't have boots on the ground 

But still 

The suns explode 

And all I can hear are the footsteps 

And all I can taste are rotten oranges 

And somewhere 

Somewhere, a bot-fly thanks this country