After the Rush Hour

I am the small town lineman, and you'll find me out here on the line,
searching ceaselessly to simply find a place I can call mine.
Every corner of this country criss-crossed out with coloured lines,
the city lies before me, another city sprawling out behind.

I am a frontiersman,
trapped in suburban England.

And since the Scramble ended, since the West was won on wagon trails,
it seems Mazzini's paradisiacal panopticon prevailed.
My walkabouts no longer take me beyond a choice of different gaols.
Why should I have to choose a state when every one of them has failed?

I am a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England.
And I promise not to overthrow the state
if allowed to redraw the atlas before I emigrate.

So I have sailed the seven seas alone,
trying to find a shore I can call home,
but all I found are different flags,
double-speaking diplomats,
and I do not have time for that.

So I'll declare my own sovereign state,
the borders based on the bottoms of my boots,
and I will open embassies wherever the hell I please,
and at assemblies you will see me sat but never on my knees.

I am a frontiersman, trapped in suburban England.
And I promise not to overthrow the state
if allowed to redraw the atlas before I emigrate.
And I'd gladly leave your Metternich's alone
as long as where I lay my head I can be my very own.

I am the Winchester lineman

I am a frontiersman,
trapped in suburban England,
but here I will not remain
I'll ride into the sunset,
my horse waits on the plain.
And I keep walking the line.