417 yards to the second "O" in Coors.

The world of my grandfather no longer exists,
no more open frontiers,
quantity before quality,
speed before dependability,
nothing so unique that it cannot be copied.

Nothing to last more than a year or two,
a world of the mass produced,
disposable products for disposable people,
nothing inexpendable.

A future bought with muscle and hot iron,
blood and burning cordite,
morgaged for plastic and convenience,
lost to the almighty bottom line.

No more masterpieces.
No more individuals.
Freedom sacrificed for the illusion of safety.