Frontiers offend the freethinker,
they imply boundaries to imagination.
Mortar agglomerates the divisions
in a strangling ring around the living.

Soon visions of fences and moats multiply;
secret passages and underground bomb shelters
sell like grandma's cookies at the sweetheart ball.
But it all leaves a taste of baking soda on the tongue.

Just like losing football teams,
the Vandals rile against the Barbarians.
Do you prefer pillage to torture?
Take your pick! Sign the contract!

Take me to your leader
and restore your sense of security.
And they build barricades of fear.
Then fly above your pain.

They destroy books, in great funeral pyres.
Embalm relatives with napalm,
not sure who is wining this game.
The Vandals or the Barbs? Depends!

The museum has lost money and history,
the librarian can't remember hers.
If knowledge is power, who knows where
it all disappeared? Collectors?

Your land or my property?
Difficult to tell who owns what
in the struggle for supremacy,
excuse me!..democracy?

Your patch of sand for my weapons.
Equal opportunity to the neighbors who buy
supersize, we are proud to supply.
Just please, don't blow us up first.

The sooner it all explodes, the larger the order
for the newer artillery products
and don't forget our special this month;
outdated slingshots, bows and arrows.

For the indiscriminate buyer, we have discarded shells,
some retarded powder, a few vials of failed experimental
dormant virus, unmarked for dubious origin.
Don't worry, good price for package deal!.
We'll throw in a fence or two.

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