Twenty, twenty is so round and simple and when the lewd question is popped,
The temptation so simple, make money while you can,
Not tomorrow, carve it and grow it and love it now,
Put good hard cash in your pocket,
Get the pension seen to and sorted,
By offering them their aching dreams in a bottle.
These sorcerers, these psychics, and what-not, reiki and yoga,
And definitely all their disciples, proselytisers,
Guardians of the Mysterie, them as breaststroke around
In sacredism, bleating come on in,
The water’s lovely. Rapacious ones, who take the things of God
Twist them, prey on weakness, break the universe’s beauty,
But they have the cure for everything.
The futurologists, the experts, alectomancers, cheiromancers,
The doom-sayers, the formers and wielders of opinion,
They are so glib and so deceiving in their rants,
Forever asked – for centuries – when will they get their come-uppance?
But still here, slid to a new con.
Time for the trumpet and the walls of Jericho – for you,
Your place is the eighth circle, maybe it’ll happen one day.