REOPEN KENNEDY CASE

Tunny-down, tunny-down

First Movement

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Brack and molt bind recompense

in catalopian frequented suspense;

an interloper's journey mild

though shunned by others too reviled,

to spit in the face of fate...

Just spitting in the face of fate.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Madam's purpose, blissfully tense,

leads one caller to large expense

to corral the sprite so newly wild

bite tongue or else be let defiled;

curse fortune with the hand of hate...

Cursing fortune with the hand of hate.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

A spoiler's mass, life-long sentence;

the proud availed nought in defense;

led away to sufferin' as a child

whose toys were never over-styled.

No limpid harmonies can sate...

All exiled to starting gate.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Second Movement

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Fortunes won, the living see

all manner of dread hypocrisy;

dying laugh on their release

from burdens' certain increase.

Then laid in the ground to rest...

Giving them their final rest.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

In darkened corners wonder thee

who search for stark reality;

"science, sanity, bring our ease"

cry out those on bended knees

while bowing to the west...

Bow ever to that golden west.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Planets encircle this living sea

emboldened by a gnat's history.

Righteous fodder, mad cow disease,

wading deep in bovine feces

while scraping off the mess...

Cleaning our boots of the mess.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

A century torn, born of the sty,

more than its list of years to die.

Legacy looms large, proclamation frees

one and all to new forms of slaveries:

nothing to profess...

Professing only the process.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Wait, then bolt, into the sky;

weight holds fast to you and I.

Graver issues, no gravity eased

nurtured nature scoffs at the tease

and neuters all the craziness...

Neutral, crazy, callousness.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

A wail, a moan, a furtive eye,

warblers seeking to hide the "I"

from pulling, strains hypocrises

heated or in deepest freeze

as icy futures coalesce...

Set in cold stoniness.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Third Movement

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

The cantrefs wept at harvestide,

bruised fruits were reaped in stride;

the marketplace was so unfair -

no maggoted catch was spared

as the tables were brought down..

Bartered tables all cast down.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

The monkish souls gathered inside

not for mercy, pray, but hide;

wept pity for all within their lair

as it was the cheapest fare

among that ilk to be found...

When any could be found.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Popinjays from pulpits stride

banter bliss of fates' collide;

conjuring blessings of thin air

and placing blame precisely there

responsibility shamed, disowned...

Ministering self-atoned.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Former gods in hallowed ride

from ancient roots, loomed astride,

and led by heart, treated fair;

robed intruders praise despair

and pray a truth be found...

Yearn for truth to come aground.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

Fourth Movement

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

The weight of souls from ages past

bear down the shoulders, young;

some yearn for all the good that was

while others grasp at dreams unsung.

The ones who set the tunny-down...

Malicious smiles of victories won.

Tunny-down, tunny-down, sing the wee folk, tunny-down.

When the wait at last bares too much

and anguished souls scream repentance,

the towers over those tinier such

will finally serve their sentence:

the wee folk will all rise as one...

The wee folk will rise, all won.

Tearing-down, tearing-down, sing the wee folk, tear them all down.

Epic! You should sell this to the Lord of the Ring franchise!