Pale convention

Oh the people sleep
their destiny was never to question
to be but a bucket embryo in the matrix of the screen machines
How they sleep

Ideas that were chewed like gum
that piece of road hardened gum discolored compact
is picked up by the desperate fast answer seeking youth
the ones with no patience who pick that hardened gum up

Without even questioning it's whereabouts
The horrid naysayers and apocalypse predictors
stealing the very vitality of the youth
Throwing the whole goal of living in the trash

The amazing evolution of everything is tasteless
to the street gum chewer
to the dead sense of smell because their ideas come from the sewer
All the greatness of any generation lie in their questions

Not those easy bandage answers
that pale convention applies to the nasty wounds of interrogation