The sum of lackluster wills
Fashionably undone
Ever soothing our ills,
Seekers of fun
From truth we run
In false light – repair
Subject to the baron,
Of the power of the air
It’s pride that kills
Second to none,
Oh the chills
Have just begun
At the point of a gun
Thus we despair
Subject to the baron,
Of the power of the air
Receding from the hills
Sure to be overrun
And the chasm fills
One by one,
A fallen legion,
Trapped in the snare,
Subject to the baron,
Of the power of the air
Yet there is a scission
Most are not aware
Subject to the baron,
Of the power of the air
Anon's Register 