Of course, ears tend to lean to sweet summer gleam;

of gossip as gold as honey.

And tongues tend to slip, words through the lip;

of tasteless thoughts and money.

Eyes tend to wander, too low at the neck,

and brains tend to shrivel in the lack of wonder. 

Such a poetic irony, in my feat of observation,

Such a sympathetic tyranny is this situation, 

Of these  individual automatics, crawling through the

wasteland. 

Of course, those minds tend to wander,

back into the cess pools and stagnant ponds,

of ignorance and oblivion,

While forever lies above their heads,

and the worlds shine above dreamless beds.