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Lee Bains III & The Glory Fires
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Sweet Disorder!
Mountain mist gives way to a yellow haze
As we glimpse, from the backseat,
Southtown kids waiting for the bus in blurs of white and navy-blue.
Out past the city wall, each little kingdom
Fills its stucco citadel with tow-headed children
As we file quietly, hush now, into the long dark pews.
Stolen girls sit locked inside
The sweating walls of sodden motels
Lining the barricade our fathers named First Avenue North.
Rusted buses ship strong young men
To prisons risen in the fields of old plantations,
Where their bodies are turned to profits by our fathers' courts.
O, sisters,
can you shout it out?
Sweet disorder!
O, children,
how do we ditch
involuntary servitude,
and form
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a true union?
Sweet disorder!
The hills rippling out from the interstate
Hide overgrown mills and backfilled holes,
Left in the wake of the company's long burning march south.
The board still lays blame on cheaper, darker men,
Once creekbeds, now oceans, away,
Who outpace the gun into the fiery furnace and the mine's black mouth.
O, brothers,
can you write it out?
Sweet disorder!
O, children,
how do we scrap
globalist American plutocracy,
and build us
a magic city?
Sweet disorder!
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