The trouble with the Maples (and they're quite convinced they're right)

The trouble with the Maples (and they're quite convinced they're right), they say the Oaks are just too lofty and they grab up all the light. Drawn like moths we drift into the city the timeless old attraction. I have only the music of the waterfall to comfort me now. I have not left this cave for days now. Our great computers fill the hallowed halls. All the world's indeed a stage, and we are merely players, performers and portrayers, each another's audience outside the gilded cage. A modern-day warrior, mean mean stride, today's Tom Sawyer, mean mean pride. Living in the Limelight the universal dream for those who wish to seem. My uncle has a country place, that no-one knows about. Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar! 

I brushed away the dust of the years, and picked it up, holding it reverently in my hands. But the Oaks can't help their feelings, if they like the way they're made, and they wonder why the Maples can't be happy in their shade? The massive grey walls of the Temples rise from the Heart of every Federation city. One likes to believe in the freedom of music, but glittering prizes and endless compromises shatter the illusion of integrity. Subdivisions - in the basement bars, in the backs of cars, be cool or be cast out. It has become my last refuge in my total despair. Forget about your silly whim. It doesn't fit the plan. In the sudden silence as I finished playing, I looked up to a circle of grim, expressionless faces. Weary of the night, praying for the light, prison of the lost - Xanadu Now there's no more Oak oppression for they passed a noble law, and the trees are all kept equal by hatchet, axe, and saw... 

Can still be open-hearted, not so coldly charted. Today's Tom Sawyer, he gets high on you, and the space he invades he gets by on you. Just think of what my life might be in a world like I have seen. I can no longer live under the control of the Federation, but there is no other place to go. Off on your way, hit the open road. I wandered home though the silent streets and fell into a fitful sleep. I wish that it might come to pass, not fade like all my dreams. My spirits are low. In the depths of despair, my lifeblood spills over... Catch the mist - Catch the myth - Catch the mystery - Catch the drift. To find the sacred river Alph, to walk the caves of ice. 

Those who wish to be must put aside the alienation get on with the fascination, the real relation, the underlying theme. Any escape might help to smooth the unattractive truth, but the suburbs have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth. Always hopeful, yet discontent, he knows changes aren't permanent - but change is. I can't pretend a stranger is a long-awaited friend. The people will all see its light. Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime... Their power grows with purpose strong to claim the home where they belong. Just think about the average. What use have they for you? Instead of the grateful joy that I expected, they were words of quiet rejection! These things just can't be true. 

I learned to lay my fingers across the wires, and to turn the keys to make them sound differently. At the one-lane bridge, I leave the giants stranded at the riverside. Home to tear the Temples down. Home to change. I scaled the frozen mountain tops of eastern lands unknown. He leads me on, light years away through astral nights, galactic days. Companion, unobtrusive, plays the song that's so elusive, and the magic music makes your morning mood. He says it used to be a farm, before the Motor Law. I know it's most unusual to come before you so, but I've found an ancient miracle. I thought that you should know. I see still the incredible beauty of the sculptured cities, and the pure spirit of man revealed in the lives and works of this world. The sleep is still in my eyes.
Yes, we know. It's nothing new. It's just a waste of time. Sundays I elude the 'Eyes', and hop the Turbine Freight to far outside the Wire, where my white-haired uncle waits. Living in a fisheye lens caught in the camera eye, I have no heart to lie. Sunlight on chrome, the blur of the landscape, every nerve aware. I saw now how meaningless life had become with the loss of all these things... Sprawling on the fringes of the city in geometric order. We have no need for ancient ways. All the gifts of life are held within our walls. I heave a sigh, and sadly smile. And lie a while in bed. There is magic at your fingers for the Spirit ever lingers dndemanding contact on your happy solitude.
Concert hall echoes with the sounds of salesmen. As I struck the wires with my other hand, I produced my first harmonious sounds, and soon my own music! Get caught in ticking traps and start to dream of somewhere to relax their restless flight. There's something here as strong as life. I know that it will reach you. For the words of the profits are written on the studio wall. Instead of praise, sullen dismissal. Living on a lighted stage approaches the unreal for those who think and feel in touch with some reality beyond the gilded cage. As a mad immortal man, nevermore shall I return, escape these caves of ice, for I have dined on honey dew and drunk the milk of Paradise. I can't wait to share this new wonder. An insulated border in between the bright lights and the far unlit unknown.
Stars stopped in the sky, frozen in an everlasting view, waiting for the world to end. Some will sell their dreams for small desires or lose the race to rats. Clearly yet I see the beckoning hand of the oracle as he stood at the summit of the staircase. I was overwhelmed by both wonder and understanding as I saw a completely different way to life, a way that had been crushed by the Federation long ago. There is trouble with the trees, for the Maples want more sunlight and the Oaks ignore their pleas. Subdivisions - in the high school halls, in the shopping malls, conform or be cast out. Our world is doing fine. Our books, our music, our work and play are all looked after by the benevolent wisdom of the priests... Father Brown rose to his feet, and his somnolent voice echoed throughout the silent Temple Hall. The Priests praise my name on this night.
We are the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx. Oh, I will dine on honey dew and drink the milk of Paradise. Catch the witness - Catch the wit - Catch the spirit - Catch the spit. Almost free... all this machinery, making modern music. I can't believe you're saying. An oracle confronts me there. I don't think I can carry on this cold and empty life. See how it sings like a sad heart and joyously screams out its pain.

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