To service the engine? Creaks, clinks, clunks.
Let us lube it up with the polished minds we've purchased.
The problem? None of us know how the machine works.
They won't let us try, they won't let us learn their devices.
We're just supposed to toss in the coal and not ask questions,
and it's killing us slowly. We know there are cleaner ways,
better ways, and it has been said, in many ways, the dead horse Beat,
you can't teach the old maestro a new tune, the dog new tricks.
We can't conduct ourselves, not according to them.
What do they know, though? We are inheriting stacked band-aids.
The commodity now is originality, vitality, perspective.
We seek the truth, they seek our information, they can't handle the truth,
not first-hand, trickle-down this and that, anonymity thinly veiled,
responsibility pushed around, hot potato, catch-phrase.
Soundbytes, reality bites, bulldoze it away, out of sight out of mind,
and they don't mind, so we're left to clean it up,
Manifested destiny to force upon us the manual labor,
cleaning the streets of their messes,
taxing work, or so they want, and so we know.
The generation of wills, promises of what will be,
Due tomorrow, do tomorrow, manana, manana, manana,
until all that's left is the irony of their empty wills,
and our veiled wills,
to thrive at last, free from the old ways. The machine back in motion,
forward and onward, willing the now.
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