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