The bank of practicality is bust:

The rain is falling, the sky is weeping,
The universe is in mourning
Liberation and innovation are dead.

In a new age climate of social colloquialism,
It seems individuality is being stifled
By the debated credence of popular taste.

Skin tight metaphors and raging oxymorons,
When even the sane dress like
The fallout from a holocaust of logic.

They call the type face of neo-classical decadence,
Progress.
I call it regression to repression.

The surrender of the apple to the bearded beauty,
The best friend forever of the serpent,
Laying in wait to destroy the innocence.

Six inch stiletto skyscrapers, on the feet of
A six inch babe,
The reduction of freedom to absurdity.

The renegade morality police are sleeping,
Snoozing in the wake,
Of a nationwide acceptance of failure.

The stream lined Georgian propriety
Is gone and committed to memory,
Let sleeping rats lie.

The price of advancement is folly,
A self-destructive pursuit,
Of an unattainable nevermore.