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Born under black skies, with no expectations, |
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We crawl through our paralyzing pantomime of life, |
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Awaiting resurrection, the great unwashed seethe, |
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In quiet desperation we accept our condition fatally, |
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Is this the present? |
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Can we call this life? |
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And for the future... utopian, dystopian, or death? |
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Thirty million voices, slogging through the undergrowth, |
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As islands in prosperity, they fuel it with their blood, |
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In total separation, they scavenge for their daily bread |
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Forgotten citizens, a class in themselves lost at sea, |
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Is this the present? |
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Can we call this life? |
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And for the future... utopian, dystopian, or death? What have they worked for |
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...these dreams in the gutter, unspent? |
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Desire traded for dearth, |
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And Hope for destitution? |
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As eaters and eaten break bread, |
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They learn their trades in time, |
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But the teacher must be taught just as well, |
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And as such this tragedy unfolds... |