Whatever words the delta weeps,
whatever wounds the water dotes,
whatever scars the sand-bar scare,
the tides did mark their heir.

It's in the food, it's in the thought;
it's in the brain, here it is braught;
it's in the fruit, it's in the pip;
it's due to three men losing grip.

Talking about the myths and legends
in our midst. Talking about opinion
and the self in opposition to it's own...

Whatever enemy appears,
whatever villain viewers vote,
whatever virus of the vice,
we won't be fooled, think twice.

It's by the book, it's by the way;
it's due to threat, their people say;
it's rude regime, reigned by rough deeds:
unfertile ground with slumbring seeds.

Dealing with these dead religions
and systems; vivid still, but not alive.
Dealing with this double vision...

Vice squad, squirm the hive!


Michiel Jansen, 12-09-2004