I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told, and I have squandered my resistance, for a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises. All lies in jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest...la-la-la-la-la-la-la-lala-la-la-la-la...

Blessed are the sat upon, spat upon, ratted on.

Every generation throws a hero up the pop charts.

It was the year of the Beatles, it was the year of the Stones, it was 1964.

And you read your emily dickinson, And I my robert frost. And we note our place with bookmarkers That measure what weve lost.

These are the days of miracle and wonder.

The phrasing didn't work as well.