idealism is dead on the kneel, gleaming mile-high glow
but leaking some blood, desperation, realistically
the ideal road is twisted and melted into the bars
to walk past till sundown and turn left to the county
turn right to the world of the corrupt, leaching, and thieving
maybe you'll get a life son, like that man right there
that man in a white hat wanted to buy the world, whole
he blows on his tambourine like he blows on this world
a dark shroud of a man covered in green, a mountain of it
the next day, a long night in Arkham Asylum, a lil' Johnny Cash
an old man was traveling that bleak road, smoking and smiling
when he turned right, he saw the man in his dim eyes and asked
"my blued son, where are my valleys and the mountains?"
"Where are my swans and rivers, birds and children playing?
"Where are the mothers, drunks, and the lovers?"
"Where are the commies, the reformers, the queers?"
"Where are my space rockets, satellites, and science stuff?"
"Where are the trees, those green insects, or flowers, it's near spring?"
the man said,
"Old man you're insane, that was all in your head.
dipped and planted like a seed, the moon was a joke, and the sun too.
You need to be electrocuted and controlled till you're better, this is the real world"
he turned to some corner to say
"come, writers and critics, invite and incite some distinct pain
don't block your mind with senseless meaning, be blinded today
come, ladies and gentlemen, curse some distinct verse of words
struck together by your vision of hell, spun to heaven"

Future Is A Bleak Piece of Music