The road is blind

From where it comes to where it goes

Where southern winds may rise or blow

Where yonder rocks are said to grow

In size and strength and smoke

The words are said to lose their voice

Where ne‘er a breeze hath passed to hoist

The many flags we claim to know

From where they come to where they‘ll go

A fascist smell enthralls the towns

This brownish, foul and misty cloud

But not this time, we know, we know

We‘d never go that far, once more

We follow our computer screens,

The nun, the gun and car

As we operate machinery

We all go down, the road is blind

And if we wish to turn back time

These clocks won‘t take us far