King mob in a plastic iceberg,
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smoking water damaged cigarettes,
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observe as he works your wasteland,
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pulling punches that you never met,
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controlled in a listless airstream,
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jets are breathing in his latex eyes,
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true to form he is scared to touch them,
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and your wasteland stays vandalized.
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Success in a cut-glass wardrobe,
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all the clothes loose like shredded hair,
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dream escapes to a closet class-war,
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king mob in a smashed wheel chair,
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nerve gas for the walking wounded,
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suffocating in a sadists' prayer,
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flaming horses on a fading landscape,
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break the surface but there is no air.
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King mob as he vents his anger,
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throws a brick through the city gates,
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backfires on his wordless offspring,
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the population disintegrates,
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cold stream plus a wash of carbon,
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drives his mind like an engine room,
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cogs turning like a flawed stage whisper,
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king mob sings a lifeless tune.
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Surface
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Stop
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Pressure
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Drop
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King mob.
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Faded wrists and the risks worth taking,
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cleans his blade with dreams he froze,
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metal moments fed on foreign textures,
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breaks his mind with the things he knows,
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King mob at his withered console,
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electric arcades run on secret oils,
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flicks a switch and he's the god of anger,
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pulls a handle and the wasteland spoils.
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-----------------
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King Mob
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| The Damage Manual |