feeling that I might not be exploiting myself I might not do much good but then again I'm not beside myself And I'll be hanged if I'll join in the chorus How can so few words create such fuss? So getting nowhere quick but that's the present state of information I'm told it's getting better by a gaggle getting in formation To wax lyrical, but prissy, in big print But start at the beginning of big print Existence. Black and white. THIS * How is this found? IS the question asked But there's no right royal reply Is there no time to be relaxed? Is it just yer old pie in the sky? Captives of the think are caught Believing others are void of thought The most modern captives of them all Remold concern dissecting all This cannot just be Of course there is no equal base There's always right royal replies The angel concept is out of place The lazy day crawls up and dies There's so much work and unto who? A proffered peaceful death in lieu? A worried mind a martyr makes Fear of harrowing give and take This is too easy (But the shop's too far and the giro's late and the spare time is boring the shops too far and the giros late and the postman's a bastard give him a uniform the two channels clash and the videos bust. the services are dire, they're too interested elsewhere Oh, those others spoil this.) Ooh, knowledge