Futurissimo
I dig the music like my own little grave the notes ring hollow in the bitter air this tune of exile craves a page away from the score, away from the masters hands Futurissimo with crescendo maestro strike the signs away a burning cluster takes the page away from the tune, away from the masters hands F U T U R I S S I M O ! What is the aim of the multimoguls Is it to build consumption-hives where the master-race floats with remote control inertia in vibrating elixirs of youth which massage the hearts of smokers rinse the livers of alcoholics and embalm the brains of fools in delusions of grandeur ?... A tenor in a wine-glass plays the rebel the drowning voice betrays defeat the haunted legend flees the tale away from the stage, away from the masters hand Accelerando non capisco the rumour rumbles in the seats the cheated crowd is taking leave away from the lies, away from the masters hands F U T U R I S S I M O