I’m a  twentieth century baby,
  and a twenty first century man;
  Preceded by the definite maybe’s
  of a fickle generations attention span:

"**** the alarmist. Dissect the murderer.  
Round up the lost lot. Ground the ponderer.
For we are the witless wanderers”

We are born out of confusion and into anxiety,  
we swallow up old decades for a pastime;
they're digestible bytes to the digital society,
and their ideals oft’ so easy to mime.  

But we’re witless in our meter-less rhyme.