The America of Theodore Dreiser was a tragedy, not far removed from the West Egg home
of Gatsby
In the ring, in one corner was Jack Dempsey, but other than the heavyweight champ the
ring was empty
We are all ghosts, we are all fiction
And I will never be a part of it
In a nation of characters of every sort what vision can we have
To better carry on?
The America of Holden Caulfield was a phony, and Sal Paradise wasn’t only fleeing
acrimony
The rebel never found his cause and the Lost Generation is still lost
We are prisoners, we are all children
And I can never get away from it
In a nation of stereotype and phenotype and look-alikes we’re lost
There’s nothing left to say