The years are going by so fast it really is bewilderin' And we'll be so-called "grown ups" and have mortgages and children I hope we all gain worldliness, and wisdom, maturity But I hope most of all that MySpace falls into obscurity I hope our profiles all go dead, entombed in distant servers A monument of your youth, although lacking its observers Your page will be an empty shell, when no one is behind it I hope your MySpace stays forever - and I hope that your kids find it How I hope that you forget your MySpace I hope it slips completely from your mind And I hope it stays up long enough for the next generation to find And I hope that it embarrasses your children I hope their bratty friends all forward it around And I hope that you forget your password So you cannot take it down If your kids think you vaguely square, it will be so much clearer When they laugh at the pictures you took in your bathroom mirror And all the bands you listen to, your kids will be exposin' "Who is this Soulja Boy you reference, who's 'Uh Oh Explosion'?" They'll marvel at how old you are, they'll "rofl" at your outfits Your tastes may pass as "vintage" in the future - but I doubt it I hope your cynical kids say, "Holy crap, this is great these comments date all the way back to 2008." I hope they dig through your pictures, and find some we might call compromising I hope that seeing young Mom in a swimsuit or smoking a hookah isn't too traumatizing But it will be past their comprehension They'll ask "Did Grandpa not give you enough attention?" [insert rocking out here] They might poke at your top 8 friends, read your comments at the most I only wish that they could see the inane bulletins you post
-Molly Lewis
