We don’t know ‘bout that strange-thought fella
Importing new-fangled ideas
Big city ways in our closed-gate village
Too much weight in that thinking of his
‘cause it makes our traditions cave in
a witch in the kitchen
cooking up a brew
smells to high heaven
of outsider stew
To the pitchforks & torches!
Hunt him down, Strip his skin
Draw & quarter, Tar & feather
QUICK! Homogenize him!
We tried so long to break his spirit
Conformity shackles, whips & chains
To beat the wild outta the stallion
Wash the black outta the sheep
But every lashing sliced thin air
Every flogging failed
He somehow passed through the midst of us
A buttered-up pig slipping right through
The truth we only whisper when the doors are locked
His scent left a stain on our town
That our wills & rituals can’t clean
We cry sometimes that he’s gone
that strange-thought fella
we loved to hate
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