the poet's task is to deceive

there's nothing we can do to end the strain
on all the hearts that beat beneath our air
the hero who would be will soon be slain
those who remain with ten-thousand-mile stare
ignore your words or see them as a snare
no means remain for us to stop the rot
the wisest ones are burning in the square
while i am at the centre you are not

a million children go against the grain
and claim to beard the wolf right in his lair
that something is the matter should be plain
but honesty's a thing that's now quite rare
we don't expect that any day'll be fair
and not a one of you's a little snot
we want the stallion but ride the mare
while i am at the centre you are not

an echo of the message signals pain
for those who have a heart and want to care
while others think such things a dismal stain
on those who act while others would not dare
no ghosts are hiding underneath the stair
and everything's been placed in proper slot
to ride the train you have to pay the fare
while i am at the centre you are not

prince i would urge you never to despair
though things are hard you have not lost the plot
some day there comes an end to this affair
while i am at the centre you are not