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  • Owen Thomas Webb

The Four Ages

Updated: Apr 15, 2023

The Age of Discord


The refugee’s home is my home

But it only became my home when the refugee thanked me for it

This is the Age of Discord, the Fourth Age

For the refugee in the Migrant Kingdom

The homeless man on the street is a reminder of the fourth age

In a primitive age, on a primitive world

Of the homeless man, who is living in a can

Of the refugee, seen living under a willow tree

It is said that this is the face of the greed of the world

In this primitive age, on this primitive world

And the ingenious man is upheld as a fool

For the fool of the world knows not the strife of the mule

Who carries the world on his back

Yet the fool of the world is the mule of the world

The very same indeed

For the fool of the world

Carries lesser fools on his back

Stress and strife, thievery and vice

These are the virtues the fourth age upholds

With all the world, its wealth untold

United together under one flag

Under a ton, in front of a gun

Those who oppose it live on the run

Don’t submit to the crown? Better get out of town

Speaking your mind? What’s the best hiding place you can find?

I’d like to know it, and hide with you myself

If you don’t mind?

With our freedom and wealth, we wish you good health

And many more years may you live

For the shortest of life in this age of strife know what makes the world spin


The Age of Gever


The sophisticated woman is more of a man than you’ll ever be

Imperious in speech, impervious in debate

This is the ideal for which man strives

It is the fountainhead of his progress

It is the long march which he marches in his dreams

Never quite to come true except for in a primitive age

In this primitive age, on a primitive world, man’s dream can come true

In an Age of Man, dreams are real, and dreams are all he needs

One hundred thousand times though, the Age of Man has come and gone

When will that long march he dreams of quicken in its pace?

When will the dissent in the ranks end? Where will it end?

It ends at the end of the Age of Man, one hundred thousand times and tenfold that, it ends

Picture one hundred thousand men

They are immaculate, in this Age of Peace, at the eye of the storm before the storm ever was

Cuffs of gold, collars of white, this is the dream come true

The architecture of this age is built to match the men who architected it

Facades of white, empty rooms full of gold, this is the dream come true

Standing in a great cobbled square, a boulevard is dedicated to their indelible friendship

Picture the man who is musing on you

Here I am sat in an iron garden chair, my table is grey metal with its white paint cracked

On this cobbled boulevard, I am a beautiful sight

The lounge suit is the uniform of this age, but I wear it so well

This time of day, at this time of year, the sun reflects so well on my complexion

The weather has been kind to me today, this is one day I will remember for ten thousand years

Are we living like in those days?

Are we living in those days?

I am the voice of that man

I could stay here for all those ten thousand years

But this age won’t see one year more


The Age of Despair


At the end of the first age, and the beginning of the second

The nature of the whole world is seen through the art of theatre

As though transitioning from one act to another

The age of two is one where that which comes in pairs is upheld

This is the tragedy of the world that stands only on two legs

When once the world stood upon four

I am an actor, and I know where I play

Long lines, no lines, as long as I’m paid

Playing the fool or playing it cool, I wear whiteface every day

Got to get a word in to Emmeline’s father

‘Oh God, she thinks I’m gay’

In the age of two, an actor and a dancer stand upon the stage

Even though the stage was built with room for only one

The stage is like a watchtower, from which I can see many miles

For the actor and the dancer, the stage is their home

But no other home do they have

It’s raining, raining, raining forever

For the two upon the watchtower

Who never spoke another word to one another

Waiting forever for the voice to wed them together

Waiting forever for the vicar to stop his bothering bicker

And climb the tower a little quicker

Too slow, old vicar, too slow

For the two upon the watchtower

Thunder and lightning, Indra and Vritra

Raining forever on the two in the picture

Silent forever for the needy of lecture

Double-think, double-thought of wearing a tincture

Fragile and silly, lacy and frilly

So is the folly of two into one


The Age of Goloka


Now remove yourself from this risqué scene

I can be so inappropriate when I am watching you in daylight

Now remove me from this this vulgar scene

Of golden boulevards and tarnished silver cobblestones

Picture the man at leisure in the countryside

This is the Age of Goloka

I know where I am, don’t you?

In a brown suit, cream hat, smoking a cigarette

It was offered to me by a homeless refugee

How could I refuse such humble charity?

The third age has passed this place by, we’re safe here for now

The fourth age consumes the world below

The destitution of their wealth is demonstrated so

Thus ended the world you and I know

Picture the man at leisure in the countryside

Here we do not reach for the bottle to solve our problems

We do not reach for the sedative to obscure our despair

The young people of the farm live in a world altogether more enlightened than the old one

The young people on the farm make me more envious than your world ever would

When I am at leisure in the country, I can walk so far from home

Seeing no one, I become conscious of the curvature of the Earth

This is a lesson in the nature of the long march we are on

Don’t hide your daughters from the degradation of the third age

Don’t hide them from disaster and destruction that will be brought upon them in the fourth

The First Age can be found on the farm, in this the age of sacrifice

This is the nature of the long, long march

Every man and woman must understand the dualism of the mountain we climb

Climbing this green mountain, I can see further than ever before

One hundred thousand miles of green overflowing beyond the horizon

One hundred thousand smiling faces thankful, for the long march they are marching together

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