General Crossing Lyrics

It's an old profession
	of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing --
	button out, button in.

The tall General will mine
	a few bridges tonight,
	stroking soft machinery.
Fanfare at dawn
	courting green steel
	lined up for World War One
	(Two, Three, Four).

It's an old profession
	of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing
	on a landscape with no tree.

The tall General points
	to the distance --
	disconnects his power supply.
Writes a stiff note to his nearest
	and dearest --
	he takes the battle plan
	and contemplates his fly.

The tall General
	flies by the seat of history.
The tall General
	is crossing.
The tall General
	he thinks inevitability.
The tall General
	is definitely crossing.

With spit and with polish --
	time for desperate measures.
The pain in the forehead
	from holding up to the pressures
	of life on the rim
	of the convenient alliance.
Out on the rim --
	let me out in the rim.

The tall General will walk
	across the compound
	with his briefcase and I.D.
Later they'll post him
	seemingly missing --