Centuries go by in a flash, then they crash
Into clichés. I recall reading about today’s strife
In a book from caveman times. Can it last,
Is the first thing you think, can it thrive?
Seven days a week the drunkard ups his drink,
While machines wear themselves out, sink
Into abuse. Looking forward is looking back,
Since for trouble, we have an old, natural knack.
When I’m asked about what will happen tomorrow
I tell the asker yesterday’s tomorrow’s sorrow,
Unless it isn’t. But you have to put the drink down
And commit to a different path, you have to drown
Your love in an instant, and keep your head high
Above water until you reach a side that’s dry.