Poets and intellectuals
work the data mines
for hopelessness seems
close to the solution
in a world that's hope-bereft
Students still read
Paradise Lost -
it gets simpler
with each passing year -
we, sinners all
still shake our fear crosses
Still people build their houses
outside of corruption
albeit they're aglow
with all the reports of it
from some central dispensation
Do we listen to this Satan
omnipresent and eternal,
or is the voice just too
damn inaudible?
Yes the symbols are embedded
In every program that we see
but we thumb our noses
at all that,
riffling the dial,
blinking
as our heroes
genuflect
before it,
That's their deal, see,
not mine, you know,
I still can dig an orgy
but not if there's too much
blood
The yearning's secret
in every heart
for something
beyond that power,
something one can actually hear
In the wind and the birds
and the streams, life is real
and death is a rumor,
and anyone with half a mind
can read that gossip rag
With names like Milton,
Blake and Shelley,
who still work
in Satan's mills,
as if they haven't changed.
