And we died in a wasted war—it's gone that way before

What kind of necromancy do I have to work to get the shade of Phil Ochs back? What is the secret history of the world, that his death was not counterweight enough? That we are here, again, where too many of his songs can be quoted as headlines? The flag has blown a fuse. Is there anybody here who thinks that following the orders takes away the blame? Sarcastic students tell them not to fight no more. We're teaching the people the freedom for which they are yearning—while we're dragging them down to the path of never returning, but we'll condescend to talk while your cities are burning. And do you have a picture of the pain? Who is the sacrifice this time, enough to jolt us onto a different track? Or are we past that chance? (I don't want to satirize these people, I want to vaporize them.) Oh, dance, dance, dance. One day the waste land wondered where the fisher king had gone.

Ballads going wild, words have turned to water

Today has been drowned in snow. These are the good things: where words of mine have ended up.

"Carne Vale."

"Follow Me Home."

I am particularly, ridiculously honored by the first of these.