Written by: Ajayi Angel-Simon

CHORUS FOR DOOMED YOUTHS how fortunate are you, Child? I couldn't abort you. now I've given birth to you and nothing shall kill your breath--- till you tell this truth. you have come: to live and to love. I name you Deft-Daft you're like Jabez; borne out of the sorrow of my marooned heart. you're my child, be also my herald. Go ye to that tribe of kooky tune-smiths and tell them; tell them how deft their sound how daft their lyrics how doggone their voices how gaga their listeners how savage their songs how brief their existence. tell them! tell them tell those loony song-smiths-- whose choruses are chanted in all wacky-wacko-psycho muster-- to chant the beauty of nature and cover her nakedness. tell them! tell them how their ignoble lyrics defile the minds of the young and ravage the mind of the sages. singing, dancing, capering grinding, swinging, raving smoking, drinking, prattling buying, selling, fighting feel-highing, bubbling, hurting... dying of excessive pressure for treasure; dying for excessive measure of pleasure. tell them! tell them their errant lyrics bear bawds and brainless brawn whose thew thaw in stew! sing- dance- darkness- phew! watery lyrics filled with chaff to rouse demented youths. their music, their fall; their melody, their pall. tell them! tell it to them. then like an Abiku die your final death. when you are reborn to live your final life, I shall rename you Deft-Deft