The pacifists from Pittsburg came into town one day
To stop the bloodshed overseas in their own peaceful way.
They organized a protest to speak their mind on war
on carnage, orphans, amputees and blood and guts and gore.
They set upon the capitol with all its frauds inside
And chanted chants and prayed their prayers that they had memorized.
"Let's burn the king in effigy," one asked, "or would that break the rules?"
Debate ensued, consensus reached: Such ploys were angry tools.
"But are we not so angry that we might not bend tradition
And show these fucks how pissed we are with fiery erudition?"
"No, kind sir. Remember Prague and its defenestrations.
We cannot have an angry mob at peaceful demonstrations.
For, if we are true pacifists, we cannot urge to burn.
Instead, we must, with rhyme and wit, seize willingness to learn.
Humanity has had enough of blood and guts and gore.
To string him up and burn him is no peaceful metaphor.
About burnt books, burnt oil, burned lives, is what folks need to hear
So peace will rain upon the land and soak the war horse gear.
The rain will rust machinery and lubricate discussions
Of profiteers and puppets and their global repercussions."
And so the clan from Pittsburg came into town that day
To stop the bloodshed overseas in their own peaceful way.
The rain came down so hard and fast it caught them by surprise.
It flooded streets with turbid streams before their very eyes.
And when the deluge ceased, the People danced on muddy ground
For word had spread: the king was dead and all his rats had drowned.
