Oh what deed the deed has done!
Saner days of yore are gone!
Of thoughts, drawn from depths the mind could reach
When guided by the serenity of tunes so rich
Of songs, mothering the young with the milk of probity
And the children lived well beyond the years of seventy
Of lyrics, from source unseen, conceived by men of worth
Speaking of meanings deeper than the words
Away they were carried, like chaffs in the gale of lust
And we dearly paid, paying dearly still for the loss
Look at the growing young and tell what you see
Are they any better than the songs they sing?
Why should the grown dance to the music so high,
When it is, on the inside, shallow and wry?
Bring unto us the days of yore
That the truth, once again, might come raw
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