Those obscure men in identical black
in the third basement of a tall office in Vermont,
never see the far horizon;
have phosphorous skin,
live on a diet of coke and cheese burger.

They are listening
and know all about us
but they haven’t heard a nightingale sing
when the moon is full in Vermont,
nor do they read our innermost thoughts.

They knew that the twin towers were about to fall
but thought that America needed a wake up call
and to overcome her dislike of body-bags,
to righteously concur the Middle East
and get rid once and for all
those bothersome people
who hate the American way.

Those hazy men,
who know the whole story,
don’t understand the human mind
to busy plotting against you and me
to hear a nightingale sing
when the moon is full in Vermont.