It was not dying: everybody died
It was not dying: we had died before In the routine crashes— and our fields Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Everybody wants to go to bed with everybody else, they'relined up for blocks, so I'll go to bed with you
They won't miss us
I find it very difficult to enthuse Over the current news
Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it can grow no blacker, it worsens,
And that is why I do not like the news, because there has never been an era when...