Swan Song

Destitutes of tomorrow!

Hiding in your ivory domes,

Look outside that window of shame,

What do you see?



Oceans, seas and vast heartbreaks,

Mothers soothing blue veins,

Coaxing avatars of bygone bards,

And men kissing men in electric pink.



Destitutes of tomorrow!

Shatter that pantheon of masked hypocrites,

Step outside your red coat -

What do you feel?



Do you feel that shiver of pain?

Or the crusty skin of lusty copulation?

Or the cigarette butt relationships?

You must feel, at least, the need to sleep?



Destitutes of tomorrow!

Weigh your fantasy boots,

Murder those names that call you son -

What are you still afraid of?



Governments, nations and citizens,

Lie in their pornographic embrace,

Waiting, waiting, always waiting -

For the last revolution to wither and die.



Destitutes of tomorrow!

Find your fifteen minutes in this godless race,

Make amends with history -

Raise your hand if you are to blame.



Rise from your feminist graves,

Captain cadaver's tale is ripe,

Slaves, slaves, slaves of the past -

Walk the line, or we're through.



Destitutes of the world, unite!

At the Hiroshima of philosophy.

Elegies of the retired are being rewritten,

Slow down or burn out.



Sunsets and dawns,

Carnations and violets,

Corporations of filth and despair,

Front-row seats await cosmic communism.



Whores of Mother Nature!

Return to your lair - the neighbours are ready,

Fight till freedom murders your free will -

Maybe they'll write a song about you.



Black and white and yellow and brown,

The stench of democracy engulfs all,

Walk while you stilll can,

But you better not run.



Hail all, the last man standing!

Debate creation with recreation,

Cathedrals of fiction will fall -

Faeries will be men again.