...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7q0UTFq-o-o

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And he f*****g laughed; he laughed 

Over the skeleton 

Of a dry, and dusty book 

Filled with long dead pages -  

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Rotting parchment and 

Near transparent, handwritten ink -   

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All affixed to a spine, that was 

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Desperately in need of a chiropractor

And some long overdue adjustments.

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It was dead, because nobody felt they needed to read it - 

Hell, it was dead because nobody felt they needed to read. 

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Period.

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But I love the old texts, ciphers and manuscripts, 

And every time I read one - a good one, 

Solzhenitsyn, Melville, Woolf or Baldwin - 

I laugh at the overbearing relevance of the passages -  

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The applicability, still, in our so utopic, modern age - 

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And because almost all of the authors, let alone the titles, 

Have yet otherwise been, so easily, remorselessly,  

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Forgotten.

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We don't want to learn lessons;

We don't want to expand our perspective;

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All we want, is to make the work days more bearable,

Somebody else to warm our beds,

An all inclusive vacation

And a playlist 

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Of easily relatable music 

On loop, within our heads.

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Dancing, suppose we'd all just rather be dancing. 

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