Middle Age Mutant Artists Living In A Half Shell

Echoes and us

In these sewers

No one else can hear

We’re still singing

We’re still writing our signatures on walls

Laughing as if we have a cause

Cherished by the upper walkers

They put us down but botched our slaughter.

Dirty discarded flutes still play

Jumping around while we say

This may be our home and grave

Nevertheless, we won’t behave

Silence ignored and refused

Booted below we wouldn’t follow the news

Daylight through covers

Underground poets and musicians will recover

All juicy fruit lies spread like jam

Discarded instruments still play and we are a band.

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