To the editor:
The echoes from a distant time,
remind us of our wrong.
A song sung simply,
becomes more than a simply sung song.
We wrap ourselves in a political sheet,
right or left, where’s the middle in which we meet?
We seek the bleak, the incomplete,
we’re scared of revolution because we’re scared to compete.
There’s no choice when there is no voice,
there’s more class in an old VW than a new Rolls Royce.