Childe

“Commala-come-come
There’s a young man with a gun.
Young man lost his honey
When she took it on the run.

Commala-come-one!
She took it on the run!
Left her baby lonely
But he baby ain’t done.

Commala-come-coo
The wind’ll blow ya through.
Ya gotta go where ka’s wind blows ya
Cause there’s nothin else to do.

Commala-come-two!
Nothin else to do!
Gotta go where ka’s wind blows ya
Cause there’s nothin else to do.

Commala-come-key
Can you tell me what ya see?
Is it ghosts or just the mirror
That makes ya wanna flee?

Commala-come-three!
I beg ya, tell me!
Is it ghosts or just your darker self
That makes ya wanna flee?

Commala-come-ko
Whatcha doin at my do’?
If ya doan tell me now, my friend
I’ll lay ya on de flo’.

Commala-come-fo’!
I can lay ya low!
The things I’ve do to such as you
You never wanna know.

Commala-gin-jive
Ain’t it grand to be alive?
To look out on Discordia
When the Demon Moon arrives.

Commala-come-five!
Even when the shadows rise!
To see the world and walk the world
Makes ya glad to be alive.

Commala-mox-nix!
You’re in a nasty fix!
To take a hand in traitor’s glove
Is to grasp a sheaf of sticks!

Commala-come-six!
Nothing there but thorns and sticks!
When your find your hand in traitor’s glove
You’re in a nasty fix.

Commala-loaf-leaven!
They go to hell or up to heaven!
The the guns are shot and the fires hot,
You got to poke em in the oven.

Commala-come-seven!
Salt and yow’ for leaven!
Heat em up and knock em down
And poke em in the oven.

Commala-ka-kate
You’re in the hands of fate.
No matter if it’s real or not,
The hour groweth late.

Commala-come-eight!
The hour groweth late!
No matter what shade ya cast
You’re in the hands of fate.

Commala-me-mine
You have to walk the line.
When you finally get the thing you need
It makes you feel so fine.

Commala-come-nine!
It makes ya feel fine!
But if you’d have the thing you need
You have to walk the line.

Commala-come-ken
It’s the other one again.
You may know her name and face
But that don’t make her your friend.

Commala-come-ten!
She is not your friend!
If you let her get too close
She’ll cut you up again!

Commala-come-call
We hail the one who made us all,
Who made the men and made the maids,
Who made the great and small.

Commala-come-call!
He made us great and small!
And yet how great the hand of fate
That rules us one and all.

Commala-come-ki,
There’s a time to live and one to die.
With your back against the final wall
Ya gotta let the bullets fly.

Commala-come-ki!
Let the bullets fly!
Don’t ‘ee mourn for me, my lads
When it comes my day to die.

Commala-come-kass!
The child has come at last!
Sing your song, O sing it well,
The child has come to pass.

Commala-come-kass,
The worst has come to pass.
The Tower trembles on its ground;
The child has come at last.

Commala-come-come,
The battle’s now begun!
And all the foes of men and rose
Rise with the setting sun.”
― Stephen King, Song of Susannah

“The worst illiterate is the political illiterate, he doesn’t hear, doesn’t speak, nor participates in the political events. He doesn’t know the cost of life, the price of the bean, of the fish, of the flour, of the rent, of the shoes and of the medicine, all depends on political decisions. The political illiterate is so stupid that he is proud and swells his chest saying that he hates politics. The imbecile doesn’t know that, from his political ignorance is born the prostitute, the abandoned child, and the worst thieves of all, the bad politician, corrupted and flunky of the national and multinational companies.”
― Bertolt Brecht

“Human stories are practically always about one thing, really, aren't they? Death. The inevitability of death. . .
. . . (quoting an obituary) 'There is no such thing as a natural death. Nothing that ever happens to man is natural, since his presence calls the whole world into question. All men must die, but for every man his death is an accident, and even if he knows it he would sense to it an unjustifiable violation.' Well, you may agree with the words or not, but those are the key spring of The Lord Of The Rings”
― J.R.R. Tolkien

“The first time it was reported that our friends were being butchered there was a cry of horror. Then a hundred were butchered. But when a thousand were butchered and there was no end to the butchery, a blanket of silence spread.
When evil-doing comes like falling rain, nobody calls out "stop!"

When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.”
― Bertolt Brecht, Selected Poems