Rabble

There's a gun through the trees,
With a man behind it,
As we smear the ground with funkiness,
And the people all run wild.
When we've all let go, completely,
The factories make no sound.

As we forget, we've all forgotten,
As freedom then sets in,
We've forgotten what's important,
Apart from what we think's important,
Which is only what we're into.
Final, mindful, mindlessness.
Pure reality, we can't explain.
The nothing, in our brain.

As the trees stare on,
They don't care about us,
And the growing throng,
The jabbering, shouting rabble,
No longer refined,
As there's nobody left,
To remind us,
Or define us,
Because everything's here,
Now everything's gone,
And we've finally, lost our minds.