Testo Plough the Shit - Ben Caplan

Plough the Shit

The world is an overflowing gutter
It bubbles with the brine of shit and blood
And those who keep their eyes upon the heavens
Are the ones that end up faces down in the mud
It’s easy to speak of grand ambitions
Its east to pretend your innocent
But lest you get distracted by the suffering of your sister
Being practical and trying to pay the rent
Heaven has been promised to the righteous
Hell’s an overpopulated pit
Purgatory’s given to the dreamers
But the world belongs to those who plow the shit
There’s a special place in hell for fancy talkers
There’s a special place in heaven for the whores
There’s a throne reserved for those with good ideas
Stolen by the demagogues who wanted more
The flowers and the laces in the market
Are all purchased by the peddlers of the flesh
But those who bring relief and carnal pleasure
Sometimes serve the needs of mankind for the best
Cast off the limitations of the righteous
There are good deeds only devils can commit
Let us dance between the teardrops and the angels
For the world belongs to those who plow the shit
At last the supreme maker decreed that this creature
To whom he could give nothing holy his own
Should have a share
In the particular endowment of every other creature
Taking man therefore this
Creature of indeterminate image
He set him in the middle of the world
And thus spoke to him
We have given you all Adam
No visage proper to yourself
No endowment properly your own
In order that
Whatever price, whatever form, whatever gifts you may with
Premeditation select
These same may you have and possess
Through your own judgement and decision
We have made you a creature neither of heaven
Nor of Earth!
Neither mortal
Nor immortal!
And order that you may
As the free and proud shaper of your own being
Fashion yourself in the form you may propose
It will be in your power
To descend to the lower brutish forms of life
You will be able through your own judgement and decision
To rise again to the superior orders
Of life is divine
The dead become the emperors of memory
The saints have all been eaten by the worms
The living will write a twisted future
And the sinners all have practical concerns
The sentinels with rifles on the border
Of the pretenses of charity are swept
Oh but let’s not talk of slipping into nightmares
For the days are run by those who haven’t slept
So throw away the vestments of the righteous
Make sure the body almost lovely fits
The souls are taken flight now from the bullhouse
And the world belongs to those who plow the shit