The Writers' Circle

No dreams, dumb with doubt, vicious world, where genius rules;
in dusty tomes, with words to cruel,
beauty to all, cruel to me, for beyond the grave, the dead do mock,
with splendour minds, beyond or times,
take me, save me, take all, save all, from this machine land
we call free; this cruel abandon meritocracy

Question not, dream not, think not, in soul abandon all
who falter, to idle dreams, to cruel is life it seems,
too complex is man, time precious so, yet we strive
sacrifice our lives, abandon all our rights, 
for a few simple men who put money at their height-
Insane, with idle brains, comfort reigns, her man remains, 
with ignorance for all too see, in a voice and on TV,
O, cruel abandon meritocracy

Creative beings, turned machines, insulated to extreme,
selfish fools, who live far beyond their means,
Where is hope or beauty or reason,
where is Keats or Yeats, Whitman or Byron,
in books we escape this 'land of the free', for;
we too are fools for all to see;
- in this cruel abandon meritocracy