Supposing we were born into the future,
Living Backwards towards the past,
I guess this poem's already being unwritten,
And I'm looking forward to the Podcast's start,
We better be careful what we ask for,
For what we seek the crows may send,
We're forever drifting with mole-vision,
WE get rich, then die trying to pay the rent,
Our circle's decreasing,
Our connection to nature is ever depleting,
Perhaps the sound of the gong will provide the song,
For our final bid for Freedom,
Yet we colour in what we're needing,
Whether it's the glowing sun,
Or a goat's bleating,
Perhaps we should look back into our own future,
To find the inner pop-tart that we're all seeking.