This desk is a cage,
The war that societies wage
Against the free, wild
Mind of the child.
Stack them in a row,
Hush-up their cries of woe,
Their mother will never begin to know,
One day we shall reap the bitter seeds that we sow.
This is how they treat those who have never even known
What it means in blissful light to have grown.
Work their poor little brains to the bone,
Then send them home to moan.
Oh, how they will groan!
These baleful drones...
Then, in the summer holidays, a fair few will get stoned.
And the doors of perception will open...
And the school gates will shatter...
And they'll realize its not the rat-race,
But their own souls that matter.
And then they'll no longer be prisoners, but outcasts.
Autodidacts arrayed with an argent aura of arising aurora!
Like Terence, they'll use their ken, taste the fruit and sample the flora.