electric wasteland
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I wander along lonely city lights
starving for that magical touch,
a cynical jasmine of electronic youth
paved under the promise of a vision
and we would like a vision, something
that would make those Beatles sing again,
or Dylan or Hendrix or the Stones,
may we consume their ashes and be done.
I call my dad in the dead of night
asking, how is the business, father?
poppa, how is the game? Hello mother.
After no reply, the silence stops,
and I am awakened by a dial-tone.
I am a passerby, being haunted by -
all those kids who must be high -
along the streets they ask me -
Do you have the time? You?
No one has the time, not anymore,
not even the time of day,
some could say that isn't right,
no more time in day or night.
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