Some people are young and nothing else
and some people are old and nothing else
and some people are in between
and just in between.
And if the flies wore clothes on their backs
and all the buildings burned in golden fire,
if heaven shook like a belly dancer
and all the atom bombs began to cry,
some people would be young and nothing else
and some people old and nothing else,
and the rest would be the same
the rest would be the same.
The few who are different are eliminated quickly enough
by the police, by their mothers, their brothers, others; by themselves.
all that’s left is what you see.