(this is a collabo from Henry Mccarty and Dirge of the scattered)
we are tired of your shadows,
the grass has been grown,
you eat the scabs of socios rot,
your character lack has shown,
worn out by listening to the bulls,
shitting the mind of our own
We don't need any more birds,
the coo coos nest all have flown
we the people fathom indiscreet
while the meek suckle the teat
The butterflies are dying,
and the worms always seem to cheat
and the factors wander round
like helpless mindless sheep
missing the piece to our puzzle,
that would make us complete
we, the truant, who balance the table
mind the slaughter of the stables
we fought what was our right,
but now reality, its all just cable
pop cultures thrust fed
though morbid and stale,
the colors are dimmed down,
skinned turned to pale
we turned off the tv,
and we listen to the silent air
nothing heard, nothing said,
nothing seen,nothing there
we're no longer in your network,
the price seemed to unfair
as we watched while you wallowed
in unknowing despair
So here We are waiting,
And our channels are now dead
We fight till we bleed
for the war is in our head
i actually faked IT this evening...
riddle me this! how do you get laid while still not getting laid!?
Ive always championed the act over the goal, but geeze now that its missing i find myself wallowing in shallow masturbatory thoughts of self-depreciation and peremptory resentment.
but playing daddy spanking his naughty girl on his lap was an irregular surprise...
Apt 1
Burlington VT 05401