Once, a man, in ancient times, in four lined quatrains, he wrote some rhymes
The future is plain to me.
Messiahs of paranoia, we watch and wait and see each self fulfilling prophecy.
And it's... it's got to be... it's been foreseen... it's c'est la vie... for you and me.
When them planets fell in line, sometime back in ninety nine,
they cut and pasted every line to suit each event in time.
Predicto-busters can't agree with the endless possibilities.
Nostro-watchers blatantly put faith in blind faith policy.
Hindsightedly... obvious to see lackadaisically... dead head we.
Once, a man, in ancient times, in four lined quatrains, he wrote some rhymes.
The future's plain to me.
Messiahs of paranoia, we watch and wait and see each self fulfilling prophecy.
And it's...algebraically... frustratingly... defeatingly... not for me... I'd rather we... changelings be
... or it's c'est la vie... for you and me.