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This machine kills fascists

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.



Makes me think that ...

Woody Guthrie's music was an inspiration to many during his life, which ended on 3rd Oct 1967, and it still today. Loot takes Guthrie's inscription on his guitar as the title of this wor,


Andy Denham

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Image: Woody Guthrie with his guitar with labell: "This Machine Kills Fascists"

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