These dwellers in houses of clay
They don't admit it, but they know it...
Make no mistake
Ain't nothing durable bout these misfits
So they sculpt,
They build,
They write,
They destroy
They procreate
They kill
They make music
All seeking to be famous,
Or shokingly notorious
These psuedo story tellers
Deceived philosophers...
Imitators...
Doing all that they can to etch themslves in history
To be fresh bloosoms in a bouquet of 'forget me nots'
But society has limited capacity to retain in its annals, all legacies
And a generation once, twice, maybe three times removed
Has little memory of him who came from dust and to thence returns
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