What one waits for is a
To walk in and to take a look around
So that you can lay down your weapons
And surrender with harmony:
So, no more do you have to think,
Make decisions, or fret for the sun;
No more would you have to lead, but be led
By the benevolence of empire and
The feigned vigour of a wooden gun.
Where you will be laid down and told to
Close your eyes and to shut down all thought
And to let memory cascade into a seamless void
To the salvation of what to think, one may ought.