Is it very hot there? Do these people care Past flags and dollars, conference rooms In fortresses of fountain pens, chilled air? Beyond the silk-draped windows lie the tombs Of soldiers, lessons resting in the bone, Past flags and dollars, conference rooms. Are walls inscribed and figures made of stone, Rifles raised and years surveyed in wordless eyes Of soldiers, lessons resting in the bone While smiles reach out for honor like a prize, Fingers never feeling quiet cities, wind, birdcall, Rifles raised and years surveyed in wordless eyes. The clink of glass, ring of voices mask the fall, Leaves scraping cross the thaw and rock Fingers never feeling quiet cities, wind, birdcall. Leaves scraping cross the thaw and rock, Silenced by the ticking of the doomsday clock. Is it very hot there? Do these people care In fortresses of fountain pens, chilled air?