No time left for art
As the worker bees descend on the sun's rays
Dereliction of duty breeds insecurity
Allowing the conveyor belt to move
Our greatest hopes rely on the wallet
And not the gentle stroke of the brush

The sword of literature and design sheathed
As machines dominate our minds
Destiny of redemption lying in wait
As we inhale the sourness of greed
No fate too unfathomable for idealism
Perhaps no fate at all for pragmatism

Alas, no time left for art
The conveyor belt pushes forward
Transcending individual furnishing
And descending into the darkness of want
Complete injustice for need