With pen held close to his chest he thought,
He believed and he pursued his poetry
No currency was sufficient for the lines to be bought
As his poems were his oratory
To change the old world
Where people die everyday
Commands he who has the sword
And a skillful drama at every corner and promises for a street play
The lines cared little for a rhyme
It cared for a hymn
Which would be for the mass
To challenge their struggle at every grass
And so he wrote and filled up pages with his gibberish
To wake up the society still feverish
He believed that the words would one day carve a new dawn
Where it was the same between the king and the pawn
One night, late after he completed his daily poetic shit
Prepared he was to dance to his new heart beat
At last he had found those lines
And believed he, no one could challenge the coming times.
And with the greetings of the wooden cuckoo
At early morning two
Knocked his doors a never heard before hand
Strange voice calling his name informed he and his writings were banned.
Tears had no choice but to wait while angry Jose opened the door
Faced the black hat pair, show caused them he with his sickle, his only weapon, a revolting poor
They smiled and told him they were the agents of the sovereign
And for this unruly act he must go to the prisoners inn
Defiant Jose, ran the sickle in the air
Six chambers filled came out a revolver
Two distinct gunshots piercing the calm
Saved four, and Jose lay in his own bloods arm.
Not a single one ran to his rescue
The smoke from his hut came down as dark dew
Died Jose not alone but with his dear lines
His poetry received their funeral
But cold Jose was not buried
For him there were no spines .
He believed and he pursued his poetry
No currency was sufficient for the lines to be bought
As his poems were his oratory
To change the old world
Where people die everyday
Commands he who has the sword
And a skillful drama at every corner and promises for a street play
The lines cared little for a rhyme
It cared for a hymn
Which would be for the mass
To challenge their struggle at every grass
And so he wrote and filled up pages with his gibberish
To wake up the society still feverish
He believed that the words would one day carve a new dawn
Where it was the same between the king and the pawn
One night, late after he completed his daily poetic shit
Prepared he was to dance to his new heart beat
At last he had found those lines
And believed he, no one could challenge the coming times.
And with the greetings of the wooden cuckoo
At early morning two
Knocked his doors a never heard before hand
Strange voice calling his name informed he and his writings were banned.
Tears had no choice but to wait while angry Jose opened the door
Faced the black hat pair, show caused them he with his sickle, his only weapon, a revolting poor
They smiled and told him they were the agents of the sovereign
And for this unruly act he must go to the prisoners inn
Defiant Jose, ran the sickle in the air
Six chambers filled came out a revolver
Two distinct gunshots piercing the calm
Saved four, and Jose lay in his own bloods arm.
Not a single one ran to his rescue
The smoke from his hut came down as dark dew
Died Jose not alone but with his dear lines
His poetry received their funeral
But cold Jose was not buried
For him there were no spines .
