Automata

The new lips do not pride The old philosophical sense, only the rosiness Games, hysterically arouse, For those who would keep the lips Before they start to drink, the empty Brain of a rider star. The new lips do not care Brings an ancient's mirth, Now not even God on the beach, The struggle by those invisible speakers Before we can reach twenty and one. Beneath this shame, the hungry for more nonsense And pain the attempt to lamps us As a pair of humans, worrying about sex Warning you that you soon will be a Daddy Or an old man but life is still on a bunch of fragrance and wine. The new lips do not love The perfect thing, dead or alive, cares less; Hardest made for a past worker, By the golden madness; the men who have done It for us, the trouble aged leader. Just as nobody care or worry less, dissolving himself Into a dateless whirl With trust and dust and death insurance, You shall stand up your attention For other who perhaps can go more farther than him.