Don’t give me technology-
I loathe what we’ve become-
Give me parchment, give me ink,
I’ll write in blood, I’ll write on sheets.
Bare walls suit me fine-
I prefer pencils, and my wine,
Where have all my good friends gone,
oft to sing their sing sing songs?
We could share this apple cake-
drink milk and whiskey and tell tales of take,
of confession and penance and love be damned,
oh if words could come in a can!
This tiresome fight-
I can’t begin to explain,
selling our souls for gold or fame,
does any one even hear our pain?
We prostitute our writings out,
only to see our hearts torn out,
its only real if written down,
words have no meaning, unless typed down…