|As bounding jesters, we arrived at the festival, filled with joy, slogans, rage, and chants. We brimmed with the obvious, banalities, and we came to concur with our kind.
This new world shaker
Blue-eyed traipsing vagabond
So slight in stature
Wagging a finger at past generations, how we cursed and hated their injustice and war machinery. But our idol had plugged in, gone electric, gone eclectic, introspective.
We cried “traitor" and “Judas”
Pelted him with “Booo…”
We had answers but never found need to pose questions, to ourselves. How the song had changed, and how the song remained the same.
Look into my eyes
What am I supposed to be?
What is it I owe?
In the light of a dawning decade, with swelling from behind, we shed false ideals, and false idols, like baby teeth, one by one, in the years to come.
© Copyright 2003 Harlow Flick (UN: wolfgang at Writing.Com).
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