Got some old books, telling stories about alien races,
wondrous worlds, distant places,
thought I can go there before I die,
but I'm still stuck with a car that cannot fly.

Machines were meant to get rid of hard work's pain,
but the blue-collar worker became a puppet on a chain,
once automated brooms start sweeping the floor,
you're the sorcerer's apprentice, and can't stop them anymore.

Internet turned everyone into a transmitter,
mass media debunked as counterfeiter.
Pretty soon big money jumped in and pulled the plug,
speak up now, and you'll be fixed like any bug.

I dreamed of a black man as president of the USA,
thought I'll never live to see that day,
thought he certainly would right a wrong, or two,
can't believe he turned out a third rate actor, too.


There is a place where the future died in agony,
dreams pulled back by it's gravity.
There's a graveyard where all good intentions rest,
once embraced so hard, shrouded corpses now, at best.

Words & Music: Michael Michaelis

Michael: Vocals, Guitars, Violin, Bass, Cymbals & HiHat, Wave Drum (Snare, Toms, Bass Drum), Percussion (Shaker, Tambourine)

Recorded, edited, and mixed proudly using Cubase.

(Last Update: 22.11.2018)

[All Rights reserved. © Michael Michaelis, 2016]

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