Bring forth the waves, flames, the hailstorms
Allow the rivers to fall beneath the Earth
Send the pyres to scorch the fields
Cast the hail to destroy the shields
I proclaim these demands to the northern mountains
I exclaim these theses over the cascading fountains
Let them soar above the tallest cloud
Let them fall below the buried shroud
I awake from a clamorous, sleepless rest, although
Log cabins are never known for comfort I suppose
Peeking out the window, I spot Mr. Frost laying a rock above a pile.
Though a harmless old man, he proves somewhat slightly hostile
I only know him for one phrase, and I am sure he will repeat it
They're the only words he delivers when I go out to greet him
Leaving my home I declare, "Let me give you a hand with that wall there"
He responds with a stolid but dependable nod, while looking as if he had tasted something odd
As I lift a rock I begin to say, "Is it necessary to rebuild this wall anyway?
We're respectable people who never disturb, and we rarely exchange, beyond anything, a word."
As I cease my speech, he phonetically labors,
"Mr. Robert, Good fences make good neighbors"
Before I've even the time to formulate a response, he returns to his house and falls asleep to Brahms
Turning my shoulder, I start to feel ten years older
And mulling over the current situation, I take his point into consideration
Before I go back inside, I drop the rocks, think of the encounter most unorthodox, remove my socks, and prepare for sleep earlier due to the autumnal equinox
There's rows of soldiers planted with their feet on the ground
They scream incessantly and incredibly but never make a sound
All parallel from across a line, they fight a war inside one mind
The world's death certificate has now been signed
Killing's a skill, still most don't have that ill will
You might think it's right to turn their plight into spite
But it's a condition, to join missiles' extradition
When a war breaks again, it's the end