Dedicated to the memory of Billy Pilgrim, who didn't die in Dresden. So it goes, so it goes, Vonnegut, his rhythm flows, Down the stairs, a deadly show, He laughs and so he goes. Twenty-seven gone today, Drowned in wood and something sharp, About the killer, all I'll say, I hope he's eaten yet. Lend no thought to where they rest, Floorboards, dust, it matters not, Back to nowhere, where they came, They go on just the same. Little girls that walk the fields.... God only knows they wouldn't choose, To go so soon, so loud and quick, Hirohito, what a prick, How high the bastard should be blown, But children live to do his own, And so he stays, so he stays, So warm, his little throne. Beauty lies in dissonance, They say so back at home, On second thought, no, they don't. It was green and gold, or silver chrome, Glimmering rings that swim in foam, Flashy cars and aeroboats, A golden goose and magic goat, Something stiff to suit your throat, It floats, and shimmers silver, too. But anything so unresolved, Unglossed and dull and last to die, They'd scream respite and sweet disgust, And turn away their straining eyes. Tension, oh, they hated that.. Strung their thoughts a bit too tight, And far too high in painful flight, All fell without a single flap, Smiles sunk deep in frothing lips, And the audience just screams and claps, Encore! Encore! Suicide show! So it goes, so it goes. A pretty girl's explosive strap, Fat ol' Jap that writers the rules, Humans cheap, jewels run steep, Guess which one he spent. Christ child, Nixon, so it goes, Vonnegut, his rhythm flows, Staircase funfare, nukes and warfare, We scream or laugh and go.
