Only beats, repeat, on ‘Stupor Street’
Who wants, or cares for, ‘vain’ verses
Deceit, is a saccharine, more than sweet
That rears, our intellects’, universes!
When world, is hooked, to platitudes
In the, rat-race of, its Digital Creed
Fine-art, is a tumor, that exudes
Putrid pus, of a, gangrened breed!
Yes, songs still echo, our ethos
Alas, it no more, exists though
What lingers, is, prurient pathos
Caroused o’er, doggerel, and disco!
$ong$, are pimped, in, Digital Bazaar$
O’er like$, bought for, Digital Dollar$
Who $ell, this farce, are our, new $tar$
Who bear, music’s bier, on cold shoulders!
No, “Measure of a Man”, no, “Candle in the Wind”
Banal beats, vacuous vocals, now, titillate throngs
Why Mozart, is dismayed, Beethoven, chagrined
Where, We Lost, The Substance, Of Our Songs!
© 2021 Vikas Chandra