After the Revolution

Sunday morning, after the revolution
we drove home, made the beds we would lie in.
Pockets full of papers and the papers full of headlines;
(took some pictures just to prove we had a good time)
now I’m lying here, while the fires still burn outside.

Wake up in the morning, heads full of sleep and we
listen to the news as we drink our coffee.
Didn’t need to be there, you can watch it all on TV,
but now we know  that they’re only telling half the story,
‘cause we were there, we saw the dancing and the drums.

And what they are showing us looks like a battlefield,
but what they fail to mention is why they had to build a wall
all around the leaders, as if they were in jail
or as if they were an empire about to fall.

Friday night, before the revolution,
thought I should call you, thought maybe the solution
was to take my courage and to walk into that landmine,
but three in the morning came and then it was closing time,
and I know you well enough to know that it’s too late to call.

And sure love, love can be a battlefield,
and sure I made my protest, tried to break down the wall:
Inside some countries people disappear, and maybe I am one of them,
or maybe we’re the empire that’s about to fall.

Five in the morning, sun’s still rising when we
hit the road, gotta get there to make history.
The old Dodge rumbles toward the trouble in the city
we’re dressed for protest like it’s halloween, we’re giddy:
the sun is shining and it feels like it’s a holiday.

Saturday, what a day for the revolution!
Walked into a wall of tears before I could stop them
everyone’s shouting “Who’s watching the watchmen?”
Everyone’s crying ‘cause the air’s full of poison
but it’s here we’ve travelled to and here we are going to stand.

And this revolution turns into a battlefield,
they have a tea party while we try to break down the wall.
Inside some people the revolution disappears,
and maybe that’s just apathy, or maybe it’s just easier,
or maybe it’s the reason that we’re gonna fall.

Monday morning, after the revolution
i never called you, my silence absolution.
But now the miles are flying and my eye’s on the road at hand,
I keep on driving like the sea searching for land,
my tires spinning revolutions that never end.

And maybe you’d be hurt if you knew why I didn’t call
or maybe you were marching too, holding your own sign
and if I had seen you there,
maybe we”d have put down our masks,
faced the fear and breathed the air
stood with the rebels by the broken wall
and watched the empire fall.