I met a man on the way to work who said,
hail, my bruther,
just digging deeper
in all that drives
the minds of men
scatterbrained.
you gamble your life away
to the bane of our existence
opportunity knocks on the door:
take but one rapturous look
after our own,
girded for battle.
we the people
fashion a hero of the people.
living in dreams,
dreaming in life,
from the dead white letters
on a black screen.
look in my eyes and tell me,
diverging queen of ice turbulent,
tell me the truth
tell me lies.
face the music of our time
and turn down the volume
the answer is yes
you're not going to use it
so lose it
these freethinking death throes.
ha ha pay the piper:
drink bleach, twist the knife
shock and awe
instant gratification.
a rite of passage for confused youth.
it taxes my soul to stop Father Time
and tell him
ever-so-gently
look after your own Hell.
the dead and well-kept secret,
a bohemian wasteland manifesto:
you'd better listen close
get this right
don't miss it
hold the phone
stop the industrious beaver
for so sayeth the prophet
and very truly he tells us: (ahem)
we are all pawns of those who are to argue
with stuck-in-traffic counterfeit objectivity
the sometimes-truth.
and? so?
bang.
ignorance.
hail, my bruther,
just digging deeper
in all that drives
the minds of men
scatterbrained.
you gamble your life away
to the bane of our existence
opportunity knocks on the door:
take but one rapturous look
after our own,
girded for battle.
we the people
fashion a hero of the people.
living in dreams,
dreaming in life,
from the dead white letters
on a black screen.
look in my eyes and tell me,
diverging queen of ice turbulent,
tell me the truth
tell me lies.
face the music of our time
and turn down the volume
the answer is yes
you're not going to use it
so lose it
these freethinking death throes.
ha ha pay the piper:
drink bleach, twist the knife
shock and awe
instant gratification.
a rite of passage for confused youth.
it taxes my soul to stop Father Time
and tell him
ever-so-gently
look after your own Hell.
the dead and well-kept secret,
a bohemian wasteland manifesto:
you'd better listen close
get this right
don't miss it
hold the phone
stop the industrious beaver
for so sayeth the prophet
and very truly he tells us: (ahem)
we are all pawns of those who are to argue
with stuck-in-traffic counterfeit objectivity
the sometimes-truth.
and? so?
bang.
ignorance.
