With the wings of unchained freedom,
Is it there that he belongs?
Yet he asks himself "who needs them?",
Needs the countless hangers on.
Was he born to sing for peasants?
Use their bread to keep him warm,
Ask yourself, at times "Who hasn't
seen his mind unfold a storm?"
"He's too good to live forever"
Chant the individual masses,
Idol god in jeans and leather,
Wispy hair and dark sunglasses,
Undetermined carries on,
For him the future is foregone!
Writing with a tangled mind,
Tolling for the deaf and blind,
Another poet behind his time.
D. Williams, U.6
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