such a morning
all dim and grey and wrong
wondering why its chilly
and where all our dreams have gone
still the ads are playing
on the idiot box
and in the radios smooth sound bites
crying out buy lots and lots
such a morning
all whim and pay and yawns
wondering where our
civilization has gone
still the ads they're preying
from the idiot box
and in the radios smooth sound bites
our souls are sold and bought
and its foggy
another morning
all dark in cold cold mist
wondering if this whimpered end
is the one we should have missed
still those smiles on the faces
plasticized and perfect
and showing us all their bared teeth
snow white and minty breathed
its foggy
been here once before
its foggy
No Arcadia, no Avalon
only endless moors
why this morning
seems to be the same
wondering if this is some start
to some other new end game
still the birds are all a tweeting
and the books are all two faced
telling all the world it seems
so ends this human race
its foggy
mysticism so pure
its foggy
no Avalon nor Arcadia,
only endless mores
Copyright 2017 Bradley Garfield Needham
All rights reserved
