The Morning Page

In a Manhattan court of stone and glass, A former king, his moment come to pass. Thirty-four charges read aloud and slow, For a secret payment from a life ago. Twelve regular folks, with faces worn and plain, Weighed the fate of a man who'd made it rain. The gavel fell, a silence filled the room, Sealing one more chapter of the boom and doom. Oh, the ink runs black on the morning page,

Another actor on a turning stage. From the halls of power to the prairie ground, The same old story keeps on comin' 'round. The wind just blows, the river flows, And a travelling soul is all who knows. The price of bread is climbing to the sky, The men in suits just watch the futures fly. A family counts its pennies, thin and worn, Praying for a less expensive morn.

They see the screens, the powerful and proud, While their own worries whisper in the crowd. The interest holds, a dam against the tide, With nowhere left for simple dreams to hide. Oh, the ink runs black on the morning page, Another actor on a turning stage. From the halls of power to the prairie ground, The same old story keeps on comin' 'round. The wind just blows, the river flows,

And a travelling soul is all who knows. The young ones camp upon the college green, For a distant war they've only ever seen. While down in Texas, sirens start to wail, As a twister's fist rips through the morning's veil. One storm of words, another one of wind, Where does this story end, where did it begin? Oh, the ink runs black on the morning page, Another actor on a turning stage.

From the halls of power to the prairie ground, The same old story keeps on comin' 'round. The wind just blows, the river flows, And a travelling soul is all who knows.