The great god Pan is dead
fear by the metallic spoonful we're fed
machines grinding in the coming night to dread.

A bourgeoisie privileged season,
time of synthetic reason,
to love fully becomes condemned treason.

In the shadows there is plastic sound & fury,
catastrophic lunatics bred on worry,
this is nihilism & we must hurry.

Kafka said, "there is abundance of hope, but none for us".
Our credo is in selfish wealth & capitalistic trust,
the crippling of countless lives by greed & it all sums to dust.

Nietzsche speaks in the twilight, "the death of God",
and Western fools are bound to nod,
a utopia after all is not sheek & mod.

Universal peace is not found here,
all we got is the material, work, & fear,
turning life into a corpse of a career.

The sin is in the lack of love to be given,
from The Fall Of Man we are driven,
if we are drawn to selfishness we are not living.

Father Death feed on our brittle bones this twilight,
for we are wounded children & in foolery we delight,
running to our doom, moving into an everlasting night.