Only the Good Die Young

Memory-centric systems logic

Only The Good Die Young

Those who shovel crap downhill,
Never require, any silly excuses,
Keeping, interminably long lists,
Of who should be, at the very top!

Or be on rock bottom of their heap!

Or the real enemy of my best friend,
Never tolerating any neutral parties!

Seldom tolerate reminders of failures,

Never tolerating, anyone’s intolerance!

Remembering who, to give crap to next,

Is how to make your mark in this world!

Is how to avoid anyone stomping on you!

Is how to remember, just when to hold em!

Is how to remember who to run away from!

Is how to remember who is easily distracted,

Is how to avoid, the worst wrath of mob rule,

Is how to claim any sanity in this mad world!

Whilst those who prefer, to shovel crap uphill,
Stay two punch lines ahead of the competition,

Distracting them, with blue smoke and mirrors,

Thus ensuring they seldom see anything coming!
You must be smarter than a damned chicken to comprehend shoveling crap.
To see larger patterns hidden within the madness of crap rolling downhill!
To comprehend, why they all persist in running in endless circles screaming,
To be able to hear, what they are saying, beneath all their indignant complaints,
Predicting, which way the wind blows, and which way crap will roll downhill next.
Which is why, only the good die young whenever chickens go on memory alone.
Sacrificing the future of their own children, usually in the name of ideology,
Even their own children abandoning everything they stand for en mass,
As they burn the candle at both ends denying them any real future!
For reality without dreams, remains every chicken's nightmare,
Whilst, dreams bereft all reality, are worse liberal fantasies!
Stay awake too long, and whimpering fools hallucinate!
If I cancel tomorrow the undead may thank me today.

If I cancel yesterday they may thank me tomorrow.
Blessed liquid courage at the bottom of a bottle,
Magic incantations, to ward off the darkness,
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools,
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player...
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more... It is a tale,
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Flying in the face of your prophets,
I mock, all of your morality plays!
The moon, is red and bleeding!
The sun, is burnt and black!
The book of life, yet silent!
There is no turning back!
For any self-respecting chicken, pride goeth before the fall!
Shamefully fallen from grace they roll crap harder downhill,
Right over their own children, and anybody else in their way!
Living their own worst nightmare, while praying for a miracle,
Anything that might save them from their own mindless masses,
Forgetting, that every Ugly Duckling's fate, is to become the swan,
Only the good die young, still waiting for a tomorrow that never comes!
(Billy Joel, Shakespeare)