Cassandra
06-02-2006, 03:16 PM
Reposted.
This is not a Warhammer story, but a short poem. Feel free to delete it if you so decide...
Ironic
I’m walking down the endless streets,
Watching the faces flow,
Looking at their passionate souls
And at their branded clothes.
Why is it the metalheads
That seem the happiest of all,
I see them grinning down the street
And laughing in the mall.
The Goths who gather in darkened clubs
And paint their nails red,
Talk to them for a couple of secs
And they’ll get inside your head.
The nerds are talking ten-to-six
About the mates they know
Across the pond, in good old France,
In Belgium, Hull or Crowe.
I see a man, built out of bricks,
Hand an ice-cream to a child
And a dapper man scream down the house
Then call his actions mild.
How come society demands
We act a certain way,
Into our niche, without a chance,
Without a word to say?
There is no need for revolution,
The truth is in the street.
Theres irony in stereotype
In everyone you meet.
So metalheads will grin and squeal
And Goths know all the tricks
And nerds can have a thousand friends
And townies live in the sticks.
Among grim faces in a surging sea
They stand out like the sun,
And I fade into the background
Feeling that I’ve won.
But then it strikes me like a blow,
The truth behind this tale.
Why those who should be sad still smile
And the popular are pale.
It’s a phrase that works well either way.
Tis an irony I know well,
That in reaching for what we see as Heaven
We consign ourselves to Hell.
This is not a Warhammer story, but a short poem. Feel free to delete it if you so decide...
Ironic
I’m walking down the endless streets,
Watching the faces flow,
Looking at their passionate souls
And at their branded clothes.
Why is it the metalheads
That seem the happiest of all,
I see them grinning down the street
And laughing in the mall.
The Goths who gather in darkened clubs
And paint their nails red,
Talk to them for a couple of secs
And they’ll get inside your head.
The nerds are talking ten-to-six
About the mates they know
Across the pond, in good old France,
In Belgium, Hull or Crowe.
I see a man, built out of bricks,
Hand an ice-cream to a child
And a dapper man scream down the house
Then call his actions mild.
How come society demands
We act a certain way,
Into our niche, without a chance,
Without a word to say?
There is no need for revolution,
The truth is in the street.
Theres irony in stereotype
In everyone you meet.
So metalheads will grin and squeal
And Goths know all the tricks
And nerds can have a thousand friends
And townies live in the sticks.
Among grim faces in a surging sea
They stand out like the sun,
And I fade into the background
Feeling that I’ve won.
But then it strikes me like a blow,
The truth behind this tale.
Why those who should be sad still smile
And the popular are pale.
It’s a phrase that works well either way.
Tis an irony I know well,
That in reaching for what we see as Heaven
We consign ourselves to Hell.