Funeral bells are tolling, pendulous,
across the land - death itself become
a great obsession. Baby boomers, one
and all - veteran's of war and Viet Nam.
Still, the memories of love refuse to die.
Long and long, we've walked along,
pretending everything would be all right.

Flower children, robed now in the guise
of yuppie class. Little Johnny brought
his father's gun to school today, and
shot down Mary Jane because she
never laid her loving hands on him.
Our heritage is acting itself out in
innocence.

Dick no longer lingers, building
castles in the sand. Another pie chart
passes through the images of mind,
and into dust. Frank, the architect,
tries to explain why all the girders
turned to rust. We must, we must,
pretend that we're OK.

Little Orphan Annie winks a sad and
knowing eye, recycling those feelings
of a vast abandonment. Pac-Man takes
another bite of endless demons running
through the mind. The rosary and
crucifix are clasped within the hands
of skeletal remains that cannot pray.
No warriors will come to kneel through
the vigil at the altar, through these endless
days and nights we've come to live.

We give, in order that we might receive
another crumb. Deaf and dumb, the
rich and powerful still live their lives
of ease in places where we've never
been allowed. Their servants bow and
bend, withholding curses that they
really need to spend. And in the
background, Kenny Loggins sings
again of days of Avalon.  Another
star is born in Hollywood. (Oh,
California king, why do you weep
alone tonight?)

Secret chambers, ever growing.
Incense lit and candles glowing.
For what - this mighty sacrifice
we make? Twin towers glowing
eerily, within a starless sky, as
all the reasons why are etched by
fire in the sky. These memories
were never make-believe.

Another love song, playing on the
waving radio, attempting still to
override the mighty deviations
that we feel. We wander through
the valleys of the death of our
alternatives. 'Twas never ours
to give or take at all. The universe
itself is the creatirx, and she's
grown weary of the endless wars
of men; as she reaches for the
heart of every opening again.

Funeral bells are tolling, pendulous,
across the land - death itself become
a great obsession. Baby boomers, one
and all - veteran's of war and Viet Nam.
Still, the memories of love refuse to die.
Long and long, we've walked along,
pretending everything would be all right,
despite the great abandonment we knew.
Now that we're here, perhaps we'll
finally find a way to make a difference...

? Michaelette ?