Roaring for Zion

A wise once told me, rapping over my car speakers, "Seany, keep on
pushing cause the streets are yours and there's gonna come a day when
all that shit won't matter. So shoot it up, shoot it up; it just don't
matter," so I kept on pushing, clear past 100 on the edge of a fiery,
lake where I saw a group of pelicans out of the corner of my eye, and
I've been described as a man with a real strong will to survive but by
the time you read this story, I won't even be alive but some promises
are made to be broken; some words aren't heard till after they're
spoken And I've never really been so I'll just have to buy an Acid
Airlines ticket out of my mind; No, I've never really been so I'll just
have to go, in the footsteps of Kerouac and Cassidy, where the sun's so
hot you need a reason to move; Yeah, suppose I'll flow on down to
Mexico con mi negro Patricio, yeah, and in the evening we try to jam;
we love the music loud in this here van; and I wanna know; I wanna know
right now: How of many of you in Generation Y are really alive, living
with your soul on fire, and your mind open wide to the knowledge that
nothing's allright, nothing is fine except for this tribe of mine en
las Sierra Madres, learning to be natural born killas, tripping with
Geronimo's guerillas, and we are ashamed of our generation, which has
no soul except marketing campaigns, which turns away from literature,
art and the high life to worship video games, play with skateboards,
and play hip-hop; you sing their war song but you don't dare lift their
spears, and you shouldn't because as any student of Indian customs
knows, women aren't allowed to touch weapons before battle, and we
enlightened, of every race and creed, are preparing to show these
neo-fascists the gory meaning of the "war" in The War On Drugs, which
is really a war on thugs, on brothers(8% of whom are caged, 143 years
after The Emancipation Proclamation), on free thinkers(Newton, Picasso,
Shakespeare and countless others were heavy users of consciousness
altering agents), and anyone who dares question if our forefeathers
really charged, generation after generation, line after line, into a
garbage incerator of machine-gun fire to build a continental sized
version of Sinclair's "The Jungle." And you, you timid and elderly
generation, you hang back from the fray, afraid you might get
scratched, easily entertained with X-Boxs and the soft porn on MTV,
which won't even give you titty-shots for your souls. Ha! But you brave
souls, you who hear these words and know that today is a good day to
die, that they can incarcerate our bodies but do so at the peril of
their souls, you build barricades and join La Resistance in the streets
of our beautiful country. We will be the mouse that scares the elephant
into running off a cliff.