What use our little lives?
To what end, small toiling?
What purpose served by the generations we set in dust or cradle?
Why, survival, my dear.
Tyrants rise, and tyrants fall,
And still the money men hold the fate of all
Pockets lined
With blood and gold
The bootstrap myth
Is tiresome and old
Make Art,
which is everlasting,
and bows to no tyrant.
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