The Thatched Hut

I used to be a magic man,

one who could be happy in a jail,
who could see a road through
the world's walls,
and show others how to drive
through it just fine

But they like their walls,
and they don't like magic men
around here

And so there were troubles,
all kinds of troubles:
richly funded activists harassing me,
lying cops,
loose dogs on the streets,
jack-booted professors building walls to keep
youth from finding philosophical truth

Well, I played the role I had to
in the ancient tradition,
chose a beautiful and ancient art:
Apollo's star
to shine forth truth

But most all the people of America
walk about with high-definition screen-glasses on
enwrapped in dramatic fantasies,
neatly plugged into The Matrix
(they can freely choose from ten-thousand realities
as long as they'll disregard
the renegade signals of truth and reason)

Me, I've given up,
they'll never wake up
their very souls are corrupted
they don't want to wake up;
they've cost me too much already

Rather, like Fu Du,
I'm building a thatched hut
and seeing if I might find some tiny happiness
and write some lines
for future generations