Badgers from Back Home by Geo-Joe

Badgers

Navigating the grind,
showing up just in time
for a spin at the wheel.
What makes a good book?
Take a philosopher’s look
and pretend you don’t care.

We arrived,
parked downtown
on borrowed land
with a borrowed name.
No one says sorry.
It’s not wise.
Don’t admit
to anything.
We are badgers
who gather
once a year
hoping to be free.
Tired of fighting —
oh, help us, Lord!
Give us words.
Our pen is our sword.

There’s a speech being read
by a woman who says
that the cover matters.
A fly swims in her wine.
Didn’t find it in time.
Now, the bar is closing.

We arrived,
parked downtown
on borrowed land
with a borrowed name.
No one says sorry.
(I am sorry.)
It’s not wise.
Don’t admit
to anything.
Mr. Brown
sat us down
and declared
fascism is greed.
We paid the fee
at the door,
but the poor
are turned away.
A young suit
at the bar
wears a patch
on his left eye.
He sips on his rye
old fashioned,
pays his tab,
he’s not even tipping.
We are badgers
who gather
once a year
hoping to be free
We’re tired of fighting —
oh, help us, Lord!
Give us words.
Our pen is our sword.

• Experimental
• baroque pop
• indie
• math rock
• piano
• slowcore
• Wichita