Sitting in the dimly lit den, I hear
The static of the television
And the rambling and muttering of a talk show host on the air
I hear that audience laughing at Conan O'Brien late at night
And the ranting of an old minister's broadcast
And I hear the click of the remote grasped firmly in my palm
And my heart thrashing about in my chest, as if to get get free from it's captor
And the forced words of a reporter crying tears in front of the camera
And the stern voice of a President, bearing a grim visage, saying that there is nothing to fear
Sitting in my den, I hear the sirens beckoning, and the gears of war slowly beginning to grind