Before we wander far afield,
Futility takes up her shield,
and whither gone or whence we’ve come,
to her we each and all succumb.
Impossible to penetrate
she smiles inside and makes us great,
but should we ever really see
we bow – to Queen Futility!
There is no reason nothing thrives.
There is no why: we live and die.
Every god has fallen dead.
Futility has raised her head!
So champion what cause you may;
Futility has come to play!
And when we stand within her court
she’ll make of us but meager sport.
For her amusement do we strive,
attaining naught for all our drive,
and when the afternoon is come
Futility shall press her thumb!
There is no answer wholly true.
There’s no more done than was to do.
What meaning could there ever be
in the land of Queen Futility?
