Archaeologists

Hey you, whatd you say with your sceptre in hand?
Dont lie, what am I but a sick sycophant?
Oh you pretty men with your pretty demands
Is there an honest way that I can knock em dead?
The capitals deserted, its returning to the woods
Patience, patience.
The roots push up the sidewalks in suburban neighbourhoods
Oh dont be scared now, dont be scared.
There are bodies everywhere
The silent decks of arks litter the sea.
The archaeologists
they start to sift the darkest century.
And now theres not enough.
Theres nothing here for me Though your eyes are bright
I cant tonight.
Theres a blight parasite in the countryside so the camps are shipping
Lean, sweet, cuts of meat off the bodies of banished poets.
They arrive, boxed up, in frozen trains
and delivered in the night to the butcher man who asks no questions.
And all asudden, songs are budding, hearts are flooding through the square.
The vines, they wind up placards and cocoon baroque hotels
dont be scared
the mynah birds they nest themselves in TV aerials
as creepers creep across Phnom Penh.
Oh my friends
I do believe its bigger than us both
And so to open up the door and let it go
I fell into your eyes of blue
When all the rust had come
the empty city