I've seen her Blood burning up the moon    lighting a fire under deceptively useless things    "close your eyes shut up" she says    "now is no longer a failing regime"    But future leaks green in her eyes   Sacrificing ideas to make her artwork last    Gliding between passion and submission    She says there's no hope for iconoclasts    Art can no longer satisfy soul hunger    Art is now for cash    She's still beautiful to me    reflecting what she doesn't soak in    like algae or zoo plankton    she's feeling passion when    she hopes she's just what she should be    and somewhere out there is a bigger hand    that says she believes       She's beautiful and she's clean    maybe she should be quarantined    or can she swing from the corporate tree    can she swing for-       Maybe I don't want to lose her to this mechanical reflex world    and what she hasn't done isn't done    this may seem selfish and I know it is absurd    but nothing grows in corporate gardens I'm sure    I'm no martyr for security    maybe just a sideshow then    that relieves the pitch and waits for the dawn    or gives in as idealism's victim    and somewhere out there is a bigger hand    that says he believes       She's beautiful and she's clean    maybe she should be quarantined    or can she swing from the corporate being    can she swing for me?