(We are the) Masters of the World

Flying high

In the sky,

We are the Masters of the World.

Flying Low

Flying slow,

With banners waving and flags unfurled

We are the Masters of the World.

In our terrible machines,

Built so pristine,

We fly beneath the sun.

No sounds are heard

As the fields are burned,

When all was said and done.

In the night

Looking bright

We are the Masters of the World.

We heard the call,

We saw the heavens fall,

We are the Masters of the World.

Over the land

Over the sea

With outstretched hands

We set you free.

To choose a life,

Under the sword and knife,

It doesn’t matter to us at all,

For we have heard the call,

We are the Masters of the World.

Take a look some night,

When all is silent,

And you will see a sight

That will give you a fright.

Fires blazing on the horizon,

A shadow hanging in the sky.

The time is drawing near,

As the world turns and cries.

Fires bringing death,

Between each and every breath,

We are the Masters of the World.

As quiet as mice,

As cold as ice,

You lay there curled

We are the Masters of the World.

No more disease,

No more war,

Praying on your knees,

On the edge of the shore.

To all who hear,

Those far and near,

To the Masters of the World.

You ask why?

What have you done?

To deserve to die

Under the lightning gun.

Was it too much violence?

Not enough silence?

Does it matter anyway?

Does it do any good to stay?

When all is said and done?

Too many victims,

And no one has won.

Was it the sins of the ancients,

Inflicted upon the young?

Time cannot tell

For the hour glass fell

Spilling out all the sand.

No music is heard

Not even a word

All across the land.

Our ship flies straight

Without malice or hate

We are the Masters of the World.

Over the barren ground

Under the sea,

No life was found

By the Masters of the World.

All is quiet.

All is right.

We are the Masters of the World.

© R. A. Barbere