Socrates loves Trotsky, carved on a cherry tree,
Down by the old idealistic cemetery.
The tombstones all read, with an uncertain uniformity,
..This is where we find our solemnity...
When the wind blows, the branches like to bow
So that they can caress the loam .
Where noble men sleep in ignoble rows
Is where I tend to be compelled to go.
In the halls of man's knowledge, vast and ignored
Men and women drift towards typing boards.
They turn their backs on all of the books stored
And sidle up to the blinking screen discord.
Because we have our Hemlock, and our revolver
To the head. Our electronic suicide culture,
Our belligerent apathy for the words our forefathers.
Our ignorant bliss and our simpleton succor.
I find something sad that there are no more idealists,
Only wasted, jaded, jilted pragmatists.
Who fail to see the forest for the trees. Pessimists
Playing cynics, lyricists playing linguists.
That graveyard is closed, bared by thick broad gates
And silent save what the mute might debate.
Because there are no more scholars, only those that orate
From elevated pedestals and are put up with to placate.
What shall become of our futures all bright and shiny
When the gilding is scratched; and we
See that there is little substance beneath the chassis?
Google loves Myspace, printed on business stationery
Down by the old idealistic cemetery.
The tombstones all read, with an uncertain uniformity,
..This is where we find our solemnity...
When the wind blows, the branches like to bow
So that they can caress the loam .
Where noble men sleep in ignoble rows
Is where I tend to be compelled to go.
In the halls of man's knowledge, vast and ignored
Men and women drift towards typing boards.
They turn their backs on all of the books stored
And sidle up to the blinking screen discord.
Because we have our Hemlock, and our revolver
To the head. Our electronic suicide culture,
Our belligerent apathy for the words our forefathers.
Our ignorant bliss and our simpleton succor.
I find something sad that there are no more idealists,
Only wasted, jaded, jilted pragmatists.
Who fail to see the forest for the trees. Pessimists
Playing cynics, lyricists playing linguists.
That graveyard is closed, bared by thick broad gates
And silent save what the mute might debate.
Because there are no more scholars, only those that orate
From elevated pedestals and are put up with to placate.
What shall become of our futures all bright and shiny
When the gilding is scratched; and we
See that there is little substance beneath the chassis?
Google loves Myspace, printed on business stationery
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