O ye troubled generation!
Why art thou so porous,
You crave for riches,
You lust for money,
You desire the land boats,
Yet thou lacks focus.
O ye inhabitants of my time!
Thy hearts sings a bizarre chorus
Of which thy roots perceives so incongruous.
Replicate the ways of the lotus,
For Thou takes every stride to blossom.
O precious ones!
Study to be accomplished not affluent,
For the influence of thy caucus,
Infests like an ageing locust.
Thy organs of vision coated with mucus,
And ugly orgy scenes in circus.
O puerile generation!
With withered fist,
You point crooked fingers at thy predecessors,
But with utmost assertion,
If thou became successors,
Thou would be vehemently vicious.
The beautiful ones,our roots crave their birth,
Pending an age to an old wrinkle in the grave.
Doth thy sore hearts not prick for change!
Deeply rooted ossified souls depraved so strange,
Embrace thy clarion call for this prestigious change,
Cause thy gauge for greatness boils in a drunken haze.