Earth saves earth; you have been asked to go.
Something has attacked your lungs;
Children at their games are breathing slow.
Fame is no longer a consequence, the green
Is spreading, and through the trees a holy light is seen.
By 1968, the Beatles didn’t care
What the press thought; soon they were no longer there.
Bathe in the media; what you say
Is reality. Today
All that is famous and pleases us is dead.
The disease, out of love, first coils itself around your legs.
Vines fill holes. Electronic music hisses and begs.
Scotland surrenders. Put this cotton thing around your head.