There is ever-seeking, ever-breathing!
But yet no breath in greyness, still,
The artist plays music, seeking
Turned away by a tyranny, so blind,
he makes no sense! He is wild and raving!
Logic rules here, he's an oddity,
He is frowned on, then told to work,
says there's verses in poverty,
But they say no, "Make money! Go work!"
Reach heaven! Logic's fallacy.
No heaven in labor but brute's
The heart is one with the machines
To dream's to keep head above soot;
He sings ballads like the old kings
"What noise! Shut up!" Logic's shout!
Workers hate feeling poor, so sweat;
work until feelings' gone; tenacity;
Not a strength; but a numbness; fret!
How strange! Workers call him crazy-
But he sings and feels a sunset.
How strange! To be so poor and weak
And be joyous, not for numbness,
but of eloquence, so was he,
richer and striving more than rest;
