Week 258 // Predators

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Behold the angels
Weeping tears over the park
Old time believers
From the cradle to the grave
Take hold a piece of you
You watched them pull apart
Hold tight the bigger piece
Don’t let it get away

And rule Britannia
Oh Columbia, what art
To own a pile of dirt
Protect it to the grave
And all the angels
Weeping tears over the park
And all our saviors
Keeping predators at bay

Notes
This is the type of song that I hear in my head when I’m out walking around looking at New York. But I’m not really trying to look at New York; that’s just the city I happen to live in. I’m trying to look at America. This can be a hard city to live in if you’re trying to look at America, because it doesn’t have a whole lot in common with the rest of the country. It goes about it’s ridiculousness, fully convinced of its importance, while the rest of the country does something else. I wanted the obliviousness of this city to be in this song, and I wanted the truth of the outside world to seep in all around that obliviousness. This is a song about watching people who don’t give a lot of thought to the fact that they live in an imperial superpower, or a surveillance state, or a would be democracy seriously flirting with the idea of become a full-blown theocracy. This is a song about looking at a whole lot of people who are convinced that what happens in this city is more important than all of that. This is a song about the warmth and solace I’ve known by becoming one of those people.

~M.E.

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