So Woody you knock’em dead with a string.

Knife edged words that scythe as you sing.

This machine kills Fascists, causes lingering death.

Your lyrics convincing, a clean, fresh breath.

But fascism twists and turns through time.

Like a choking weed, poison ivy of the mind.

Cut it down once, through the Flora it bursts.

Parasitic entity, that thrives on the dispersed.

Entwining hatred as it clings to the edge.

Cloyingly destructive, driving a wedge.

When love and loyalty become hate and vitriol.

Then the guitar player must sing, rail against it all.

The author must publish and poet must write.

The timid be vocal and the fighters must fight.

Enticing, enigmatic power of a fascist regime.

The ease of transformation, purist to obscene.

Herd mentality driving irrational action.

The weak turning to pain for satisfaction.

So Woody play your guitar, again and again.

Relevant then and in opposition it must remain.