In a dead poet's dreams We ski his schemes And everybody knows Exactly what he means His words are like petrol In fossil-fueled minds His life a sad song His friends are all dying The scene is mosaic And littered with blood The company is crying For another fill-up His love has just left To come back yet again He will misspell words But only in pretend His rhymes lie perfect Without compromise Analogies come fluent As regular as the tides Conveying creative energies In scintillating style His emotional magnitudes Are never deemed mild Sewing society's threads As he weaves his lines His sharp wit would cut The most stubborn of minds In a dead poet's dreams We ski his schemes And everyone gives Exactly what he needs.