So rock band, without a name
Began to dream of fame.
Their tune was peaceful, loud and strong,
But every note seemed wrong:
What were they supposed to do
To make themselves as something new?
What songs play and what words say
That had not been done ere yesterday?

All the ideas had been taken,
All the words been sung and said,
And every idea that they had,
Had lived before and now was dead.
So with nothing left to do
They decided to end their little plan,
And never play music ever again,
So from their dreams they ran.
Their hope was gone within an hour
But little cared they now:
Instead they bought a little farm
And now they live among the cow.


© 2000 Matt Everett