THE SCENE'S pastoral, ere the set of sun
The very hour when the agents come
Alas, poor territory; do what needs done
And our production shall be begun

It’s not the killing or death-worship,
Not conquest or valor,
Civilized values, imperial capitals,
Technology, markets, nor labor
The project, in fact, is personal,
Secret, sweet, and intimate;
The very blood closest
To your heart--swim in it

What’s done is done now, what’s left defined
Following orders and marking time
The house lights go down, the curtain starts its rise
Just hit your marks and remember your lines

As the pilot to the villager
As the inquisitor to the heretic
As the settler to the native
As the soldier to the runaway
As the prison guard to the captive
Executioner to the witch
As the master to the child
As the hunter to the prey

Time’s warning has worn itself out
Even to its last recorded sound
And the forest lifted from the ground
The army sing together
A number of our occupation
It goes like: history
Has passed behind us
Heaven can be divided
And so it shall've been
Now will you join or be taken?

Equivocator, oh, if you must
Go ask the devil who dwells in the dust
There’s a ghost at the banquet, don’t raise a fuss
He just wants to thank you, the work’s done for us

It’s not the killing but the inflicting
Not the grave but the digging
And the paving over, the call to adventure
The road along which we’re endlessly driven
As the archetype to the other one
In aggregate a colony forms
You’ve been pointed out in the audience
They have come for you at last

The cast has took their final bow and as you go to wash your hands
Know ye now that dread inherit urge which is termed violence
Do as you like, do what you can, do it ‘til the hour of your death
Where the place? Upon the heath. There to meet with... MACBETH!