The English Classroom


And all of these dead hollow men roam the Earth,

Endless treks through thick terrain

Whipping themselves

Hacking at their own skin

Thinking, nay, deceived by their own admission

For they misconceive why we are here,

The primitive is gone, dead,

And what remains is something

Synthetic and cold,

Something far different from their ongoing premise;

And these hollow men will continue to roam,

Lost by their own confusion,

While opportunity surrounds them,

The waves crashing like the chimes of a clock

Dong, dong, dong

And this is when it all dies

This is when it all falls apart.

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