These are only words and artificial tones,
We're just skin and bones playing telephone with things
We probably never said at all.
This world is stitched with schemes,
Where once there was reality.
It's hard to reach across the unbelievable distances
between what we really are and who we claim to be
The irony engine isn't lost on me
The shame is that we saw it coming,
In the faces of the young among us on crayon and paper drawings,
The clearest writing on the wall we could ever ask for,
What do they believe?
Where are all their fathers?
Where are all their mothers?
Who left them there alone with the television remote like some Philosopher's Stone
"Figure it out on your own, child"