We wore our masks of joy, our merry band,
and bragged to all our neighbors of our plan,
to dance through the nearest and farthest lands,
and sing olive branches into their hands.
They warned us we should stay and help them fight,
the demons that came calling in the night,
for though we may inspire dim delight,
our escapism would not cull the fright.
But fighting never could trade war for peace,
and singing never could trade fear for love,
and if all of our choices were deceased,
then why trade our white rabbits for faux doves?
So journeyed us from home to town to coast,
and how our first gig troubled us the most,
was that, while of our numbers we could boast,
every seat was taken up by a ghost.
And when we left, flames ate up every brick,
til sulfur made the last survivors sick.
To sail us safe through ashen fog so thick,
we had naught but our metronome's thin tick.
So journeyed we from south to north to east.
Our second concert saw our fears increased,
for all our fans had upon which to feast,
were paper crackers stolen from the priest.
And when we left, flood waters made them swim
a witch's brew of laughing cherubim.
We cried back that we would remember them...
perhaps our art may make their loss less grim.
So journeying up the road to the mount,
and giving our last wards a steep discount,
we drew them deep
into a sleep
where none would weep
but all could keep
beating their feet until they could surmount
their greatest tears no matter what the count.
The snow choked out the notes of our last song,
so we departed 'fore too very long,
and though our children froze amidst the throng,
we told ourselves that we had done no wrong.
For if we'd never left we would have died,
what harm did we, though yes, we did elope?
In leaving, all we'd changed was who had cried,
so why not share our white rabbits of hope?
So came we lastly back to homes we'd left,
to find our loved one's bones bleached by the day,
not one of them were buried for their rest,
for all alive had opted not to stay
And when the demons came to call us down,
we sang of fantasies of better lands,
where flags were fictions and of peace the sound
could be heard anywhere that one could stand.
The last star set to usher in a night
of darkness that fit eyes like leather gloves.
Came we to sleep
and dream so deep
of cliffs too steep
to promise, keep.
And thus, at last losing the hopeless fight,
so died both our white rabbits and faux doves.